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It was May 5, 2018.
I had just gotten to work, two hours into my shift exactly, when I got called into my boss’ office.
“There’s been a fire at your apartment. Your mom is on the way there.”
"Okay," I thought. I wasn’t too worried since nothing bad ever happened to me, not thinking about my cats at all.
Then it was just 30 minutes past and I was told that I needed to go home with my coworker who graciously picked me up to bring me. That’s when I started panicking. I went outside and found her waiting, a look of sorrow on her face.
“What’s happened??” I asked, leaning in the window.
“There’s been a fire—it’s bad.”
“Are the cats okay??”
I expected her to nod her head yes, and say, “Oh, yes they’re fine. They’re with your mom.”
But she shook her head no instead.
I started hyperventilating and ran to the back to get my things, and ran back to the front doors to hop in the car. I wasn’t even in the car for five minutes before I started sobbing disgustingly, tears and snot running down my face as we drove down the familiar streets.
When we got to the apartments, firefighters were all throughout the parking lot. We couldn’t even drive down the driveway and had to park at the school's parking lot. I ran out of the car and past the officers, past my mom and family that were waiting for me, my mom's face soaked in tears like mine, and saw it.
My heart had never been so broken.
Our half of the apartment was gone. Everything we had worked for, our most valued items—gone.
But see, none of that even mattered to me. I was so used to starting over that it didn’t faze me one bit. It was our babies that made me blind with all sorts of emotions, all amplified from my cyclothymia disorder. I was out of my mind, my heart just shattered when I thought the worst. I tried to say positive and keep the thought of survival in my mind, but it was logically flawed. Realistically, there’s no way they would’ve made it, for the fire started right underneath us from some idiot druggie who couldn’t keep his stupid cigarette off his mattress.
I wanted to murder him.
Krampus, my beautiful 1-year-old tuxedo cat was my best friend. My hero. He was my everything. From his white eyebrows and mustache to his cute white mittens.
He was gone.
To make matters worse for myself, I blamed me. The night before, I locked him out while he was meowing and scratching at my door when I cut myself for the first time. And now I have scars as a reminder of how horrible I am. Better yet, I didn’t have to work today. I took a shift for a coworker when I could’ve been home. I could’ve saved both Leo and Krampus.
But no. Money was more important to me.
It’s now November 10, and I’m still not the same, I never will be. A piece of my soul is gone and there’s nothing to replace it with. My friends who I thought as family abandoned me about two months ago because I’ve “changed.”
No. It’s because I wouldn’t hang out with them, and would rather spend time with someone who understood what I was going through and was there to comfort me. Before I met Alex, I stayed inside my room all day when I’d gotten my new apartment, trying to figure out how to properly deal with these emotions of agony. I was out of it half the time, high on whatever I could get my hands on.
Everyone says “he’s just a cat”—no. He was my hero.
“You’re holding up extremely well. If that happened to me I’d probably end up killing myself. If anything happened to MY cats or even my fiancé.”
Yeah well, how do you think I feel? Really. I was only staying alive because I felt like Krampus was still alive too. But now unfortunately I have found someone who is worth staying alive for and it sucks because if he leaves, then I’ll have nothing. I love my mom but we aren’t close. She would rather go to her coworkers—who see her as their mom—and talk to them about her personal love life than me. Which is fine—it doesn’t matter anymore anyway.
I know I shouldn’t depend on Alex for happiness, but it sure does help.
Months passed with drama going around between my ex friends and I, but the most delicious part was taking away one of her friends, her most favorite friend, my love. And it wasn’t even my fault! It was her own ignorant and childish behavior that got her ridiculed and shunned by the rest of my friends and family. After her own friends tried to recruit people to hate me, they stopped putting up with her shit and deemed her a disgusting person. Now I haven’t said anything mean like this about her until now, but boy it’s been coming. Especially since she wouldn’t even give me the time of day to tell my side of the story. She would always come up with excuses as to why she couldn’t see me. There was one chance though that I could talk to her and I chickened out because I was so anxious about it.
But I hate her. I hate her for breaking my heart over the dumbest shit. I hate that I’m always dumped on when I’m the one needing to dump. This story probably doesn’t and won’t make sense but hey, it’s hard talking about my feelings with... words. Let alone write about it.