Yomiel knows no more. Nothing except the yell he would throw all over this bastard world, if he only could – if only his voice weren't dead in his throat and the tears stopped drowning him in his useless misery, when all he feels to be is a desperately furious can of garbage.
Was it his punishment to be always late – too late to watch his skills turn into his ruin, too late to realize he'd been holding a girl and a gun for minutes and then become blind with terror. Of course this is, this will be the last of delays. From now on he'll always be there at the right time and will let the world stab his back exactly when he has no strength to face it.
It's been too late; but now is now, here is here. The attic she lived in is way too vast to bear her absence – he has escaped on the terrace in horror and would throw himself on the street anytime, except that there's no reason to kill a corpse.
So his life lies in shards all around and he, dead, sees no point in cutting his hands. He just cries on in the roaring silence he is trapped in; no way to move in that tempest, with so many waves of nothing and whys to be answered. No-one could explain where his place in life has gone, nor why those golden eyes are staring at him nearby, motionless as if they were trapped in her death too.
He can compute but a few thoughts, his sight erased by pain. It's him, yes. Sissel. The little stray has made it up there, no clue how. Sissel. There he is, sitting and filling the stage of a tragedy in the clueless (or careless?) way that cats only can ever have. Sissel. Sissel.
Once again, Yomiel can hardly believe his eyes. A puppy so small and frail, a kitten he had left in a forgotten road he doesn't even remember. A moment later, right beside him, a cat is splitting the moonlight in half with his meows, as if all the lives the world depended on their sound. And that sound is of sheer pain and loneliness, a pain and loneliness he had never known just ten terrible minutes ago.
There's no point in trying any longer – Yomiel surrenders to his sight and falls, ready to accept the truth as he will find it.
The questions only arise late in the night, when he lies on the terrace with the cat tight in his arms and his heartbeat is slow enough to let him talk.
"Guess no-one knows how on Earth you ended up here".
He can't help wondering if there is any sense in talking to a cat. Well, of course, provided that there is any sense in being alive when you're dead.
"There's nothing left here – won't you go away?"
Not a move in the nightly air. Seemingly, just like Yomiel's, the world's time is frozen and the cat is part of it all.
"All right, lad. If you have an eternity to spare, you can stay with me. Until you get tired, that is".
He smashes his head back on the floor, lowering his eyelids in the bed of a false death. The cat won't move from his chest too – he meows in his sleep while the city awakens, deep down in its concrete bowels. They remain, still tight in their sunrise embrace. They'll have plenty of time to get on their feet again.