- Feb 14, 2023
- 17
- 14
- 3
These crossroads have been tarried at for an uncomfortable amount of moons now, and within him, the gnawing fear of putting a paw forward only intensifies with every new sunrise. He's paralyzed, frozen in the liminal space of diverging destinies, stuck in the critical juncture between the forking roads ahead of him. It's so terribly daunting. One of the pathways leads to the safety of tomorrow, where he can rest easy knowing that his survival is assured, while the other tempts him with a relapse into the lifestyle he sorely longed for; both of them are utterly irreconcilable. Should one of the paths be decided upon, he understands that there is no turning back—and the weight of this irreversible choice is becoming too burdensome to bear.
Throughout the last two seasons, Shrimpy Boy has led separate lives. The day sees him as a warrior amongst a clan's ranks, adding to their prey pile and pledging himself to its security. When darkness calls, the tom forsakes the forest in favour of his old home. Yet, every night, whenever he returns to the familiar porch of his twolegs, he is confronted once again with the reason why he'd ever sought a different life.
He is being forgotten about.
Twolegs, admittedly, are not easy to understand. But Shrimpy Boy isn't foolish, he's able to latch on when something's amiss. Even in the days before his initial departure into the woods, it has felt as though his presence in the houseplace was becoming increasingly overlooked, and unnaturally so. There was no good reason for the ear-scritches to stop, for his food bowl being filled only half of the time. However, as his twolegs' hair grew greyer, their attentions seemed to wane further, until the point where he was no longer significant in their lives.
Despite the mounting pressure of this predicament, there remains one constant that draws the ginger tom back to the porch every night. Placed just outside the screen door, upon the weatherworn wooden planks, an offering of shrimp. A juicy, chunky, delicious piece of shrimp. A reminder that he still holds a place in their hearts, however small or fleeting it may be, and provides a glimmer of hope of things being different.
But as he would discover tonight, no piece of shrimp lies upon the woodrot.
Vision clouded by a fog of despair, Shrimpy Boy hurtles across the length of the porch and props himself upright against the door. His claws dig into the fine grid, daggers plucking at the mesh as he tries desperately to peer inside. The lights, they're on! That means his twolegs are home! What's more, he can glimpse the illumination of their 'tee-vee' dancing along what little he saw of the ceiling and walls. His heart races with a mix of anticipation and unease. If they're inside, he'll be able to garner their attention in some way, surely!
A harsh, plaintive meow breaks through the air's stillness. "I'm here!" he yowls, continuing to tear at the door while he cries out into the night. No immediate response comes, and his sorrow amplifies tenfold. "Please! Please, remember me!" Vulnerability in its rawest form exudes in his pleas. His twolegs may not understand his words, but the shrillness of his tone conveys everything he wants them to hear.
Still, no response.
Soppy tears well up in his eyes, which scrunch immediately when he notices. He struggles to stifle the ensuing sob, but deep down, he questions the point of even trying. There are those in SkyClan who reject Shrimpy Boy for what he is: a kittypet. Now, his twolegs reject him too. The irony is just gut-wrenching. The tom's forehead plants itself into the door, and the teardrops fall onto where the piece of shrimp is supposed to be.
Why is he being forgotten by those who are supposed to love him? Will he ever find a place where he belongs? The weight of his predicament tears at his heart, leaving him with little more than the questions about his place in the world, and the love he thought he had.
Throughout the last two seasons, Shrimpy Boy has led separate lives. The day sees him as a warrior amongst a clan's ranks, adding to their prey pile and pledging himself to its security. When darkness calls, the tom forsakes the forest in favour of his old home. Yet, every night, whenever he returns to the familiar porch of his twolegs, he is confronted once again with the reason why he'd ever sought a different life.
He is being forgotten about.
Twolegs, admittedly, are not easy to understand. But Shrimpy Boy isn't foolish, he's able to latch on when something's amiss. Even in the days before his initial departure into the woods, it has felt as though his presence in the houseplace was becoming increasingly overlooked, and unnaturally so. There was no good reason for the ear-scritches to stop, for his food bowl being filled only half of the time. However, as his twolegs' hair grew greyer, their attentions seemed to wane further, until the point where he was no longer significant in their lives.
Despite the mounting pressure of this predicament, there remains one constant that draws the ginger tom back to the porch every night. Placed just outside the screen door, upon the weatherworn wooden planks, an offering of shrimp. A juicy, chunky, delicious piece of shrimp. A reminder that he still holds a place in their hearts, however small or fleeting it may be, and provides a glimmer of hope of things being different.
But as he would discover tonight, no piece of shrimp lies upon the woodrot.
Vision clouded by a fog of despair, Shrimpy Boy hurtles across the length of the porch and props himself upright against the door. His claws dig into the fine grid, daggers plucking at the mesh as he tries desperately to peer inside. The lights, they're on! That means his twolegs are home! What's more, he can glimpse the illumination of their 'tee-vee' dancing along what little he saw of the ceiling and walls. His heart races with a mix of anticipation and unease. If they're inside, he'll be able to garner their attention in some way, surely!
A harsh, plaintive meow breaks through the air's stillness. "I'm here!" he yowls, continuing to tear at the door while he cries out into the night. No immediate response comes, and his sorrow amplifies tenfold. "Please! Please, remember me!" Vulnerability in its rawest form exudes in his pleas. His twolegs may not understand his words, but the shrillness of his tone conveys everything he wants them to hear.
Still, no response.
Soppy tears well up in his eyes, which scrunch immediately when he notices. He struggles to stifle the ensuing sob, but deep down, he questions the point of even trying. There are those in SkyClan who reject Shrimpy Boy for what he is: a kittypet. Now, his twolegs reject him too. The irony is just gut-wrenching. The tom's forehead plants itself into the door, and the teardrops fall onto where the piece of shrimp is supposed to be.
Why is he being forgotten by those who are supposed to love him? Will he ever find a place where he belongs? The weight of his predicament tears at his heart, leaving him with little more than the questions about his place in the world, and the love he thought he had.
