З життя
Герой-котик рятує від небезпеки
Котик врятував від біди
Я придбала однокімнатну квартиру в старому районі міста. Місце не найкраще, але багато грошей у мене не було, тому вибирала з того, що було. Квартира велика та світла, стелі високі. Лише під’їзд брудний і старий, а на вулицях майже немає молоді. Але я все одно була щаслива, бо це було моє перше велике придбання.
За роки, проведені в гуртожитку, я забула, що таке власний куток. З часом квартира стала здаватися холодною і дуже порожньою. Втім, вона і справді була такою — меблів майже не було, штори ще не купила. Планувала, що буду потроху обзаводитися всім цим.
Вечорами в квартирі чулося ехо і звук моїх кроків. Це трохи напружувало і навіть лякало, але нічого не могла вдіяти. Купівлю всієї меблів і ремонт одночасно я фінансово не могла собі дозволити.
Одного разу вночі я прокинулася від того, що задихалася. На грудях наче лежало щось важке. Кожен вдих давався важко. Я спробувала підвестися, проте не змогла. Мене наче притиснуло до ліжка. У страху я крутила головою, намагаючись вийти з цього стану. В якийсь момент мені стало легше. Я змогла вдихнути вільно. Жадібно ковтаючи повітря, я почула, як підлога скрипнула, наче хтось вийшов із кімнати. Підлога в квартирі була стара, і під час ходи дошки прогиналися.
З острахом я оглянула кімнату, але нічого не виявила. Колеги на роботі, вислухавши історію, сказали, що це міг бути сонний параліч. Хтось навіть порадив звернутися до лікаря, але я вирішила поки що зачекати. Може, це було випадкове явище.
Однак, через декілька ночей все повторилося. Я знову задихалася, а потім хтось утікав із кімнати. Цього разу, крім скрипу дощок, я почула легке постукування, наче в утікача були дуже довгі нігті.
І навіть цей випадок не примусив мене піти до лікаря. Два тижні я спокійно жила, поки дивний стан не повторився. Цього разу, крім відчуттів тяжкості, з’явилося відчуття стисненого горла. Я задихалася, майже втрачала свідомість. У якийсь момент мене відпустило, і знову почулися кроки.
На ранок я виявила на шиї дивні сліди. Це були синці. Хтось насправді душив мене вночі. Я сильно перелякалася і вирішила не повертатися в квартиру.
Дві ночі я провела у подруги. Вона повела мене до ворожки, яка запевнила, що на мене навели порчу і пообіцяла очистити від неї. Разом ми поїхали до моєї квартири. Екстрасенс довго проводила обряд, запевнивши, що очищення пройшло успішно і тепер я можу спати спокійно. Я розплатилася з жінкою, і вона пішла.
Я лягала спати з чистою душею, але вночі мене знову душили. Я прокинулася від відчуття тяжкості, мені не вистачало повітря. Схопившись за горло, я відчула чиїсь шершаві, дуже холодні руки. Я спробувала закричати, але марно. Тоді я спробувала розтиснути хватку невідомої, у відповідь почувся шипіння. Я чітко усвідомила, що мене хтось душить, сидячи на грудях. Наша боротьба тривала деякий час. Потім сутність відпустила мене і знову втекла з кімнати, стукаючи нігтями по підлозі.
Перелякано я вибігла з квартири. Постіявши кілька хвилин на сходовому майданчику, ухвалила рішення повернутися. Заснути більше не змогла. Задувши світло, я просиділа до ранку на кухні.
На роботі всі помітили моє сіре, втомлене обличчя. Я не стала казати колегам, що сталося, і просто послалася на втому. Повернутися в квартиру було страшно, тому я попросилася переночувати у подруги. Але треба було взяти речі з дому, тому після роботи я поїхала до себе.
Піднімаючись сходами, я зустріла свою сусідку бабу Ганну. Вона тримала в руках коробку. Літня жінка зупинила мене і запитала, чи не потрібен мені кошеня.
Я зазирнула в коробку. У ній сидів милий біленький котик з добрими очима. Баба Ганна розповіла, що підібрала малесенького біля магазину і тепер шукає для нього господарів. Не знаю, чим керувалася, але чомусь погодилася взяти котика собі. Напевно, мені було страшно повертатися до квартири одній навіть на кілька хвилин.
З котиком на руках я відчинила двері у своє житло. У кімнатах було тихо. Я відпустила котика, а сама пішла в спальню збирати речі. Через кілька хвилин я почула, як мій пухнастий улюбленець голосно зашипів. Я забігла на кухню. Кіт стояв посеред неї і, уставившись в кут, голосно шипів. Його хутро стояло дибки. Я не розуміла, що відбувається.
Кіт рішуче підбіг до стіни і почав дірвати старі шпалери. Вони залишилися від колишніх господарів. Я хотіла відтягнути його, але потім згадала численні історії про те, що коти відчувають потойбічні сили.
Разом з моїм пухнастим другом я почала здирати зі стіни шпалери. У кутку я побачила заглиблення, обклеєне газетами. Зірвавши їх, я виявила дивний згорток. Діставши його і розгорнувши, я мало не знепритомніла. Всередині лежали кістки, пір’я, сіль і невелика фотографія.
Зі старого знімка на мене дивилася стара, потворна бабця. Її очі були зовсім блідими, наче без зіниці. Таке відчуття, що фотографували її вже мертвою.
Я чула про таку традицію. Нібито померлих родичів фотографували на пам’ять, оскільки прижиттєвих знімків було зазвичай мало.
Я дістала з шафи тарілку, висипала туди вміст підкладки разом з фотографією і підпалила. Кухню наповнив зловісний запах. Мені довелося навіть заткнути ніс. Мій кіт мовчки спостерігав за спаленням. За спиною я чула кроки старих, кістлявих ніг. Сутність билася в агонії, відчайдушно бігаючи по всій квартирі.
Незабаром стало тихо. Я спалила вміст згортка вщент. Відчинила вікна, щоб вигнати неприємний запах, взяла кота, речі і поїхала до подруги.
Переночувавши у неї одну ніч, я повернулася до себе в квартиру. Я зауважила, що в кімнатах стало тепліше, а ехо майже пропало. Можливо, справа була не в порожнечі, а в тому, що хтось постійно ходив за мною.
Через місяць я знову випадково зустріла бабу Ганну. Подякувавши їй за подарунок, я почула від неї щось дивне:
– Я завжди помічала, що мешканці тієї квартири погано сплять, – зітхнула літня жінка. – Напевно, це все через відсутність котика. Тварини – наші головні цілителі.
Я замислилася над її словами. Хотіла запитати, що їй відомо про дивну квартиру, але коли відкрила рот, зрозуміла, що баба Ганна вже пішла.
Більше ніхто не турбував мій сон, а поруч завжди тихенько хропів мій пухнастий захисник.
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A Life Put Right: “Lydia, I forbid you from speaking to your sister or her family! They have their own life, we have ours. Did you ring Natalie again? Complain about me? I warned you—don’t blame me if anything happens,” snapped Brian, gripping my shoulder painfully. As always, I quietly retreated to the kitchen, blinking back bitter tears. No, I’d never complained to my sister about the life I shared with my husband. We just talked. We still had elderly parents; there was always something to discuss. That infuriated Brian. He despised my sister Natalie—her family enjoyed a peace and comfort that ours never had. When I married Brian, I was the happiest girl in England. Swept up in a whirlwind romance, I hadn’t given a thought to his lack of height—Brian barely reached my chin—or to his mother, who turned up at the wedding barely able to stand. I later learned she was a longtime alcoholic. Blinded by love, I ignored the warnings. But a year into our marriage, I began to question my happiness. Brian drank heavily, staggering in late and reeking of cheap whisky. Then came the string of affairs. I worked as a nurse at the local hospital. My pay was measly. Brian preferred the company of the pub over supporting his wife. I stopped dreaming of children. Instead, I doted on our pedigree cat. I wanted no child with an alcoholic for a father, even if I still loved Brian. “You’re a fool, Lydia! Look at all the men watching you while you waste yourself on that little tyrant. What do you see in him? You’re always covered in bruises from his fists. Think no one notices those black eyes under all that concealer? Leave him before he actually kills you, silly girl,” scolded my colleague and friend. Indeed, Brian often unleashed his anger in violence. Once he beat me so badly I couldn’t manage my hospital shift. Worse: he locked me in the flat and took the keys. After that, I grew to fear him. My soul shriveled; my heart raced whenever Brian turned his key in the lock. I thought he blamed me: for childlessness, for being a poor wife, for everything. So I never resisted when he lashed out. Why did I still love him? I remembered his mother’s advice, witch-like as she was: “Listen to your husband, love him with all your heart, forget your family and so-called friends. They’ll never do you any good.” So I left behind my friends, my family, and surrendered to Brian’s will. But I liked Brian’s melodramatic apologies. On his knees, kissing my feet, covering our bed with stolen rose petals from the neighbour’s garden. I soared in those moments. Of course, I knew the roses were pilfered, sold for cheap by a drinking mate to win his own wife’s forgiveness. But I forgave, too. Perhaps I’d have spent my life as Brian’s doormat, always picking up the pieces, had fate not intervened… “Let go of Brian, I’ve had a son with him. You’re barren; it’s time you stepped aside for our child’s sake,” demanded an impertinent stranger at my door. “I don’t believe you! Leave now, before things get worse!” I shouted back. Brian denied everything, but I pressed on: “Swear he’s not your son!” I knew he couldn’t. Brian was silent. I understood everything then. “Lydia, I’ve never seen you smile. Is everything alright?” asked Mr. Harrison, our hospital’s consultant, who I’d assumed barely noticed me. “Everything’s fine,” I replied shyly. “It’s wonderful, when people’s lives are in order. That’s when life is beautiful,” he said mysteriously. Mr. Harrison had once divorced his cheating wife and now lived alone, with a grown daughter. He was unremarkable: glasses, balding, short. Still, his aftershave sent a shiver through me; I found him strangely irresistible. After his kind words, I realised my life was chaos. Time was marching on, and I was running out of it to sort myself out. I left Brian and returned to my parents. Mum was astonished: “Lydia, what happened? Did he kick you out?” “No, Mum, I’ll explain later.” I was too ashamed to describe my married life. Later Brian’s mother rang, cursing and blaming me. But I had already begun to breathe again, thank goodness to Mr. Harrison. Brian raged, stalked me, threatened me. But he didn’t know I was finally free. “Brian, stop wasting your time on me—your son needs you. I’ve turned the page. Goodbye,” I told him calmly. I returned to Natalie and my parents. I became myself again—not a puppet. “Goodness, Lydia, I barely recognise you! You’re glowing, happier,” my friend exclaimed. Then Mr. Harrison proposed: “Lydia, let’s get married. I give you my word—you won’t regret it. Just call me by my first name at home; save the formal titles for work.” “But do you love me, Harrison?” “Oh, forgive me—I forget women need to hear it. I believe I do. But actions matter more.” “I do, Harrison. I know I’ll love you for certain,” I replied, overjoyed. Ten years passed. Every day, Harrison showed me his gentle devotion. No empty promises or theatrical apologies like Brian. He cared for and cherished me, always surprising me with his generosity. We never had children together—perhaps I was truly “barren.” But Harrison never blamed me, not once. “Lydia, it seems it’s our destiny to just have each other. That’s more than enough for me,” he reassured me whenever I mourned lost motherhood. Harrison’s daughter gave us our darling granddaughter, Sarah, who became the centre of our world. As for Brian, he drank himself to death before fifty. His mother still scowls at me across the market, but her anger no longer reaches me. I almost pity her. And as for us—Harrison and me? Our life is in order now. Life is wonderful.
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I’ll Remind You “Miss Mary, I can’t get this swirl right,” whispered little Archie, the Year 2 boy, despondently poking his brush at the stubborn green leaf of his painted flower. “Try a lighter touch, sweetheart—like you’re stroking a feather across your palm. That’s it—beautiful! That’s not a swirl, it’s a masterpiece!” smiled the elderly teacher. “And who is such a wonderful painting for?” “For my mum!” Archie beamed, triumphant over the defiant leaf. “It’s her birthday today! It’s my present!” The pride in his voice after the teacher’s praise was unmistakable. “Well, your mum is a lucky lady, Arch. Don’t close your sketchbook just yet—let those colours dry a minute, so they don’t smudge. And when you get home, gently tear out this page. Your mum will absolutely love it, you’ll see!” Miss Mary cast a last, fond glance at the boy’s dark head, bent over the page, then returned to her desk, inwardly smiling. A birthday gift for Mum! It had been too long since she had seen such beautiful presents. Archie truly had a gift for art—she must call his mother and suggest the art school; such talent deserves to be nurtured. And she’d ask her old pupil if she liked the present. Miss Mary couldn’t tear her eyes from the flower’s leaves, almost expecting them to stir and shimmer to life. Definitely takes after his mum! When Lottie was his age, she was just as good at drawing… ***** That evening, the teacher’s phone rang. “Hello, Miss Mary, it’s Lottie—Archie Cottam’s mum,” the young woman’s voice came crisply. “Just calling to say Archie won’t be in tomorrow.” “Hello, Lottie! Did something happen?” Miss Mary asked kindly. “Yes! That scamp ruined my whole birthday!” the voice bristled. “Now he’s laid up with a fever, ambulance just left.” “How’s that? He went home healthy, with a present for you…” “You mean those scribbles?” “What scribbles? Lottie, he drew you flowers! I was going to call to ask about enrolling him at art school!” “I’ve no idea about flowers, but I certainly wasn’t expecting a soggy, flea-ridden bundle!” “A bundle? What are you talking about?” Miss Mary was baffled as she listened, her frown deepening with each anxious word from the mother. “You know what, Lottie—do you mind if I come round now? I’m only next door…” A few moments later, after Lottie agreed, Miss Mary slipped into the hallway clutching her thick, battered album—full of faded photos and cherished childhood drawings from that first, long-ago class she’d ever taught. In Lottie’s bright kitchen, chaos reigned. As Lottie cleared away cake and dishes, she told the story: How Archie had come home late, dripping mud and water from his bag, coat, and trousers… How he’d pulled a soaking wet puppy from under his jumper—reeking to high heaven! He’d climbed into a frozen ditch for it, where some big boys had chucked it! His ruined textbooks, the ruined sketchbook—now nothing but blots and stains—and a fever which shot up near forty in an hour… How the guests had left, no one tasted the cake, and how the paramedic had scolded her—the negligent mother who hadn’t kept an eye on her son… “So, I took it back to the dump when Archie fell asleep. His sketchbook’s there on the radiator—there’s not a trace left of the flowers, just blotches!” Lottie sniffed. And as she rattled on, she never noticed how, with every word, every harried phrase, Miss Mary’s face grew darker. But when she heard what had happened to the puppy Archie rescued, her frown turned thunderous. She stroked the tattered sketchbook fondly and began quietly: She spoke of green swirls and living flowers… of a boy’s diligence and courage beyond his years. Of a gentle heart, quick to stand up to bullies, to defend the weak. Of the cruelty of those children who’d thrown a helpless pup into that frozen ditch. Then she led Lottie to the window. “There’s the ditch,” she pointed. “It could have swallowed Archie, let alone a tiny puppy. Did Archie care about that? Or was he thinking about those flowers he’d been so careful not to spoil, the gift for his mother?” And maybe, she went on, Lottie had forgotten the day back in the ’90s when she was a girl herself, sobbing on the bench outside school, clutching a scruffy kitten rescued from the bullies. How the whole class had stroked the cat and waited for Lottie’s mum; how Lottie hadn’t wanted to go home, how she blamed her parents when they’d thrown out that “flea-ridden bundle”—only to relent later. Miss Mary dug out an old photograph of that day—a little girl in a white pinafore, hugging a kitten, surrounded by classmates, smiling so warmly—and a faded drawing of a girl holding a fluffy kitten in one hand and clinging to her mum with the other. “I’ll remind you,” Miss Mary’s voice was stern now. “I’ll remind you of Tilly, and Patch, that lolloping mongrel who walked you all the way to university, and even the old rook with the broken wing you nursed back to health… I’ll remind you of the kindness that once blossomed bright as wildflowers in your heart.” She paused, brushing away a tear, and added: “If it were up to me, I’d have kissed that rescued puppy and Archie both! I’d frame those colourful blotches! For what better gift is there for a mother than raising a child with a kind heart?” And she never noticed, as she spoke, how Lottie’s face transformed—how she cast worried, guilty glances at Archie’s closed bedroom door, clutching the battered sketchbook with limp, pale fingers. “Miss Mary! Please—could you watch Archie for a moment? Just for a few moments. I won’t be long, I promise!” Under her teacher’s watchful gaze, Lottie grabbed her coat and dashed outside, heedless of puddles or mud, running for the far-off rubbish tip. She called and searched, looking under dirty boxes, sifting through bin bags, casting anxious glances back at home… Would she be forgiven? ***** “Arch, who’s got his nose in your painting there? Is that your friend—Digger?” “That’s him, Miss Mary! Does he look like him?” “He certainly does! And that star-shaped patch on his paw! Remember how your mum and I scrubbed them clean?” she laughed warmly. “I wash his paws every day now!” Archie declared proudly. “Mum says, ‘If you have a friend, you look after him!’ She bought us a special bowl, just for the job.” “You have a lovely mum,” smiled Miss Mary. “Are you drawing her another present?” “Mm-hmm—for a frame. She keeps those blotches in one, and she always smiles at them. Can you really smile at blotches, Miss Mary?” “At blotches? Maybe you can, if they come from the heart. Tell me, how’s art school? Is it going well?” “Really well! Soon I’ll be able to paint Mum’s portrait. She’ll be so happy! And look—” Archie pulled a folded paper from his rucksack. “This is from my mum—she draws too.” Miss Mary unfolded the sheet and gently squeezed the little boy’s shoulder. There, on the bright paper, Archie grinned brilliantly, hand resting on the head of an adoring black mongrel. Beside them stood a tiny, blonde girl in old-fashioned uniform, clutching a fluffy kitten… On the left, from behind a desk piled with books, smiled an ageless teacher, her wise and gentle eyes alive with joy. In every brushstroke and every vibrant hue, Miss Mary felt the quiet, boundless pride of a mother’s love. Brushing away tears, she smiled—there, nestled in the corner of the painting, in looping, flower-coloured letters and delicate green swirls, was a single word: “Remember.”
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My Dear Wife – When my brother would visit, he always asked, “How have you managed to live with the same wife for so many years? What’s your secret?” “Love and endless patience—that’s all there is to it,” I’d always reply. “Not for me,” he’d laugh. “I love all women—each one’s a mystery. Why live with an open book?” My younger brother, Peter, married at eighteen; his bride, Anna, was ten years his senior. She fell in love with Peter for life, but for him, it was only a fling. Anna moved into Peter’s crowded family home, treasured her collection of porcelain figurines, and believed she’d caught happiness by the tail. I, meanwhile, was hoping to find the one woman to love forever—and I did, marrying my wife over fifty years ago. Anna and Peter lasted ten years. She gave her all to their marriage, but he grew restless, drinking more, staying out with questionable friends, and finally, smashing her precious figurines in a drunken rage—leaving only one intact. After they divorced, Anna and her son returned to her hometown, and Peter spiraled deeper, remarrying and divorcing, his once-promising future lost to drink and chaos. Years later, terminally ill and alone, Peter asked me to deliver a suitcase filled with porcelain figurines and his savings to Anna—his final apology for all she’d endured. I found Anna, now caring for her ill son, and gave her Peter’s last gift. She thanked us in a letter—and sold the figurines to fund a new life in Canada for herself and her son. “I’m grateful that Peter considered me his dear wife,” she wrote. “Perhaps he never stopped loving me after all.”
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