Nine tackled my feet.
She did this every morning, it was practically a ritual, my days wouldn't feel right without it.
Nine was a gift to me from my Grandfather.
No, not my Father's- my Mother's. She hailed from the land of Gi[Guy], a small rainforest tribe called the Kamithians.
Whenever Grandfather visits me he brings weird things, Nine was one of them.
A white cat with purple eyes. She can turn invisible, and at night her skeleton glows. When she scratches someone the wound is very deep as if she has knives for claws.
When I first got her she scratched me in the face when I offered her my hand to sniff, that bitch, the scar still hasn't faded. That's why every time I see her, I tuck my foot under her belly and toss her.
That's how I trained her to keep her distance from me, but during the mornings, she chooses to test my patience.
She was nothing like the adorable and harmless cats back home.
According to Mother, Nine was a Nightmare kitten. She would grow later enough to be able to cut through bone but for now, she was harmless.
Harmless.
Can you believe these people?
As I peered into the brass mirror dully I could vaguely make out the scratches.
My frown was deep.
Every time I see it, I want to fix it. The mirror that is.
I used to work in a mirror factory you see.
But what can my wee little hands do?
Each morning my feet get punched by Nine and each morning I see this brass mirror, I tell myself I'll make a better one when I get older.
Just another normal day.
I leave my room to go find breakfast, spotting Nine running ahead of me towards the kitchen.
Mother and Father are at the kitchen table eating.
They ignore me when I greet them and I seat myself, my food has already been plated. Father will leave later to talk with his troops; lunatics inspired by his savagery and swore their life to follow him.
"Lately there have been refugees gathering outside the domain." I heard Mother say.
"Will you grant them entry?"
"Those weaklings? Why should I? I'm running a domain, not a charity."
Mother nodded.
"Never trust the poor and starving."
My first Mother believed that poorness was a spirit. She believed that one could only feel rich and blessed if one were loved.
I experienced that richness once when I was a child, but once I got older, once I had more responsibilities, my standards raised. Familial love wasn't enough anymore apparently.
I decided then what I would do for the day.
"You want to do what?"
Our chef, Mr. Boses gaped at me when I went to his kitchen.
He had heard that I could talk but he still seemed surprised.
"I want to feed the beggars out front the domain."
"Sire..."
"... I can cook myself if you don't want to."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Why can't I? What harm will it do? Father and Mother don't care."
"Well then, if the Master agrees then..."
I didn't say that.
But if that's how you took it, I'm not going to correct you.
"What would you like to make?" Mr. Boses smiled warmly at me.
We made raisin bread and cheese bread. I swiped some of the dried jerky meant for the troops while Mr. Boses was preoccupied, as well as some fruits and cheese.
While I walked there I remembered our family picnics.
Not in this world, my past life.
Perhaps finding our small one-room apartment stuffy, she would take us out to eat in parks. Mother did the best didn't she? She did her best to keep her own sanity...
Never trust the poor and starving.
I recalled her words upon laying eyes on the wanderers.
The look of defeat in their eyes reminded me of myself before I claimed my life and for a split second, I was utterly repulsed.
Why were you so hopeless? Why couldn't you see how blessed you were?! That you still had options? You damned idiot. If you can't live for yourself, live for your family!
My desire to feed them plummeted.
I ended up chucking food at them.
Seeing it rain food made their eyes sparkle, they stood up on their twos and stretched their hands out to the sky to catch it.
Once my basket was empty, that was it for the day.