The other day, I was biking down my street, when I heard a small crash, followed by a long yowl from the alleyway down south. All the alleys in New Rochester were beat-down and disgusting, with bricks so old that if they could talk, they would probably recall the dinosaurs like it was yesterday. The asphalt was gray and hardened bits of gum were stuck to the ground, weathered and blackened from the pollution in the air. Everything was slightly chipped, and the balconies jutting out from above were boarded shut with wooden planks. Trash bags littered the floor, some ripped open by alley cats or raccoons who were hungry. Against my better judgment, I walked in.
The smell of sewage grew stronger the deeper I went in. I stepped on wet cardboard. It had rained this morning, and it immediately melted under the weight of my feet. While avoiding all further traces of cardboard, I accidentally stepped into a wet puddle of ... something. The water was brown and it reeked. I gagged slightly, the putrid smell wafting towards my nose. What was I doing here anyways? I was going to go to the bakery down the street to pick up a cupcake for myself. I am already losing track of myself, only a week after living in this godforsaken city. My mom would have flipped.
I resolved to turn back and leave the alleyway—the smell had probably started clinging on my clothes at this point—but another yowl caught my attention. There had to be something back there, and I had to see it for myself. Worst case scenario, I died because some crazed murderer had the bright idea to use yowls to lure unsuspecting victims into their vile clutches.
I filled my mind with insane fantasies of my death. Maybe the killer would emerge from one of the big green dumpsters, covered in trash, stink and bloodlust. I’d scream and run in the wrong direction, and my killer would have stabbed me 5 times before I lost consciousness. Maybe the killer would snipe me from one of the boarded-up windows, and I never saw it coming. The rats would take me, and no one would think to look for me until it was too late. Loud noises sounding like guns were more common in America than you’d think. Maybe I’d be dragged into the sewers and drowned grotesquely, the killer leaving my body floating down the sewers to a sanitation factory, where some poor 9-5 worker who had their coffee spilled over their favorite shirt 30 minutes earlier would find my dead, puffed up body looking emptily up at them. Horrifying.
Alas, it was no killer, but a shaking dumpster. Ghosts were common in old cities. Never let the word “New” fool you. New Rochester was about 150 years old, give or take, and had seen many things. Maybe we had built over sacred Native American graves, and their apparitions would haunt the alleys for as long as their ghostly white bodies would allow them. Maybe not. I shrugged. Ghosts were not my problem, and I wasn’t taking any chances with a killer. I turned back, flipping my sports jacket dramatically, even though it barely touched my thigh. A loud crash called back to my attention once more, as I sighed. My shoulder heaved down with the burden of the sky. Pivoting my body to turn back to the end of the alley, I saw a cream-colored cat was attacking another calico-cat. Both were tiny, and I assumed they were about a few months old, maybe a year.
Sadly for the cats, I was a dog-person. To the best of my knowledge, at least. I never had a cat, only 3 dogs. Either way, I had no extra money to keep another living thing with me. I was already living on ramen and instant rice from the nearest Asian supermarket. The cream-colored cat raised its paws to slash at the calico cat, and against my better judgment, I grabbed a piece of the disgusting, slimy, soggy cardboard and threw it at the cream cat. I missed. I was always the last one picked at dodgeball. To my immense luck, the cream cat hissed at the piece of soggy cardboard. I imagined it saying: “disgusting, foul, thing that I have encountered! I will-” the cream cat would then launch into an intense string of curse words that would be enough to make a grown sailor blush like a little schoolgirl who had just “locked eyes” with their hallway crush. Not that I’d know anything about that.
The cream-colored cat ran out of the alleyway, leaving the calico cat standing there, shivering like me at night when the heater blew up 5 days ago. I crept up to the cat, hoping that it would not run off. Once I was close enough, I scooped it up in my arms, as it yowled and scratched almost every part of my body it could reach.
“Ow! Jeez kitty,” I muttered. “I’m trying to help you!”
As if the cat could understand me, it stopped squirming around, looking up at me with big green eyes. I shook my head. I couldn’t handle a cat! I could hardly pay the bills as is!
The cat meowed pathetically, and I groaned. Curse my stupid heart of gold!
“Let’s get you to the vet. I guess I’m not eating anything besides cold ramen for a month now.” I walked back out of the alley, picking up my bike. Thank god my mom had the smart idea to put a basket in front. I thought I looked like an idiot, but at least I wouldn’t be biking with one hand.
I pedaled off the the opposite direction, watching as the cat curled up and started sleeping. I could get used to living with a cute kitty.
“Maybe mom would give me some extra money during Christmas.” I wondered.
The smell of sewage grew stronger the deeper I went in. I stepped on wet cardboard. It had rained this morning, and it immediately melted under the weight of my feet. While avoiding all further traces of cardboard, I accidentally stepped into a wet puddle of ... something. The water was brown and it reeked. I gagged slightly, the putrid smell wafting towards my nose. What was I doing here anyways? I was going to go to the bakery down the street to pick up a cupcake for myself. I am already losing track of myself, only a week after living in this godforsaken city. My mom would have flipped.
I resolved to turn back and leave the alleyway—the smell had probably started clinging on my clothes at this point—but another yowl caught my attention. There had to be something back there, and I had to see it for myself. Worst case scenario, I died because some crazed murderer had the bright idea to use yowls to lure unsuspecting victims into their vile clutches.
I filled my mind with insane fantasies of my death. Maybe the killer would emerge from one of the big green dumpsters, covered in trash, stink and bloodlust. I’d scream and run in the wrong direction, and my killer would have stabbed me 5 times before I lost consciousness. Maybe the killer would snipe me from one of the boarded-up windows, and I never saw it coming. The rats would take me, and no one would think to look for me until it was too late. Loud noises sounding like guns were more common in America than you’d think. Maybe I’d be dragged into the sewers and drowned grotesquely, the killer leaving my body floating down the sewers to a sanitation factory, where some poor 9-5 worker who had their coffee spilled over their favorite shirt 30 minutes earlier would find my dead, puffed up body looking emptily up at them. Horrifying.
Alas, it was no killer, but a shaking dumpster. Ghosts were common in old cities. Never let the word “New” fool you. New Rochester was about 150 years old, give or take, and had seen many things. Maybe we had built over sacred Native American graves, and their apparitions would haunt the alleys for as long as their ghostly white bodies would allow them. Maybe not. I shrugged. Ghosts were not my problem, and I wasn’t taking any chances with a killer. I turned back, flipping my sports jacket dramatically, even though it barely touched my thigh. A loud crash called back to my attention once more, as I sighed. My shoulder heaved down with the burden of the sky. Pivoting my body to turn back to the end of the alley, I saw a cream-colored cat was attacking another calico-cat. Both were tiny, and I assumed they were about a few months old, maybe a year.
Sadly for the cats, I was a dog-person. To the best of my knowledge, at least. I never had a cat, only 3 dogs. Either way, I had no extra money to keep another living thing with me. I was already living on ramen and instant rice from the nearest Asian supermarket. The cream-colored cat raised its paws to slash at the calico cat, and against my better judgment, I grabbed a piece of the disgusting, slimy, soggy cardboard and threw it at the cream cat. I missed. I was always the last one picked at dodgeball. To my immense luck, the cream cat hissed at the piece of soggy cardboard. I imagined it saying: “disgusting, foul, thing that I have encountered! I will-” the cream cat would then launch into an intense string of curse words that would be enough to make a grown sailor blush like a little schoolgirl who had just “locked eyes” with their hallway crush. Not that I’d know anything about that.
The cream-colored cat ran out of the alleyway, leaving the calico cat standing there, shivering like me at night when the heater blew up 5 days ago. I crept up to the cat, hoping that it would not run off. Once I was close enough, I scooped it up in my arms, as it yowled and scratched almost every part of my body it could reach.
“Ow! Jeez kitty,” I muttered. “I’m trying to help you!”
As if the cat could understand me, it stopped squirming around, looking up at me with big green eyes. I shook my head. I couldn’t handle a cat! I could hardly pay the bills as is!
The cat meowed pathetically, and I groaned. Curse my stupid heart of gold!
“Let’s get you to the vet. I guess I’m not eating anything besides cold ramen for a month now.” I walked back out of the alley, picking up my bike. Thank god my mom had the smart idea to put a basket in front. I thought I looked like an idiot, but at least I wouldn’t be biking with one hand.
I pedaled off the the opposite direction, watching as the cat curled up and started sleeping. I could get used to living with a cute kitty.
“Maybe mom would give me some extra money during Christmas.” I wondered.
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