Weighted Down: A Short Story

It was raining. The holes in the sky were so big… letting through fat, sloppy raindrops like a sieve. Fur clung to the creature’s skin in a dirty, sticky mess. Round, wary eyes stared back at me from under a waterlogged cardboard box. It probably knew nothing of warmth or softness. Only the sharp corners of the streets, like a steely vagabond urchin. Still… I hunkered down, took my hand from my pocket and offered up my palm. Its eyes narrowed and tail twitched. Cautiously, it crept forward, sniffing disdainfully, never taking its eyes off my face. A faraway noise broke our fragile bond and the cat hissed a hasty retreat.

Sighing, I walked down the alley. Dim streetlights buzzed an unnatural yellow-green. A clump of wet newspaper clung to the side of my shoe. I didn’t bother to remove it. Rain seeped through the moth holes in my coat. I’d be soaked through before too long. The alley spilled into the street. Men standing in the shadows of a building smoked outside a public house, hats pulled down against….what? The rain? An audience? Both? One could only speculate. I kept walking. Past the late night vagrants, past the shuttered shops. All the while, the damp menaced a mean cold sliding down my neck. I reached the pier and threw the last of it into the river. My pocket was suddenly filled with emptiness. Freedom has a weight. A tangible density no one ever talks about. My lungs exhaled the breath I was holding.