З життя
Кіт спостерігав за жінкою біля колонки, вдихаючи аромати.
Кіт спостерігав за жінкою, яка набирала воду з колонки, і нюхав повітря. Він не раз навідувався в ці комори, ганяючи тут щурів і ловлячи мишей цілими родинами, а ось до переднього двору ще не підходив. Уся його шерсть, затягнутий з молодості поранений око, урізаний хвіст і залишки вух, які відмерзли якоїсь із зим, усі говорили — наближення холодів він без дому не переживе.
Кіт дивився на жінку не перший день, у її дворі був особливий запах. Ну як особливий, комусь він і може не бути особливим, а для Кота був дуже підходящим, у дворі пахло лише нею самою. Жінка була відлюдькуватою. Коту це подобалося, бо любов’ю до людей Кіт не страждав. Багато чого було пошкоджено і зламано в його котячому тілі завдяки людям.
Кіт дивився на жінку і думав, як підійти, і чи варто взагалі підходити? Може, прошмигнути в двері, коли жінка буде заходити в дім, він раніше так в теплиця до корів забирався. Ні, раніше в нього так не боліли кістки, а зараз, якщо піймає пару зазівавшихся щурів, і радий, а тоді штабелями клав. Кіт не знав слова «штабелі», але знав, як це виглядає.
Кіт підійшов до ноги, вильнув хвостом-картузиком, підморгнув здоровим оком і сказав “Мур”. Він якось бачив — так робила симпатична кішечка з сусіднього села. Звісно, “муркала” вона ніжніше і триваліше, але це був його перший “мурк” з дитинства, Кіт так тільки мамі “муркав”.
— Приємно познайомитися, — усміхнулась жінка. Вона теж звертала увагу на Кота цієї тиждень, вона і раніше підкидала йому залишки їжі, коли до весни мишино-щуряча живність була з’їдена. — Значить, говориш, тебе звати Мур, ну й добре, а то скільки років поряд, і ніяк не познайомимося, серйозний ти чоловік, Мур, — вона знову усміхнулася і пішла до хати. Кіт погодився на Мура і пішов слідом.
У хаті жінка налила Муру молока, він понюхав і незадоволено зморщився, чому люди так люблять молоко? Тому довелося йому вивчати інші місця. К новому року вони вже разом дивилися серіали. Мур дуже полюбив теплі булочки, які пекла жінка на кисляці. Ні ловити не потрібно, ні гризти, ням — і з’їв. Шерсть у нього заблищала, на оці зійшла набряклість. Мур неначе помолодів. На новорічний день Мур не знав, що це новорічний день, просто на столі стояла гілочка ялинки.
Жінка впала посеред кімнати. Впала вона якось у стодолу, у рівчак потрапила, але тоді вона просто впала, а тут! Тут пішов запах. Мур знав цей запах — так починала пахнути щур у капкані і так пахла його мати, об’ївшись отруєного щура. Нудотний, приторний запах наближення “нікчеми”.
Мур кинувся навколо жінки, знервовано заметушився і, раніше він би ніколи так не зробив, але тут, тут саме вирвалося, і Мур полоснув її по нозі з усієї котячої сили так, що хлинула кров. Жінка застогнала, слабкою рукою витягла телефон з кишені, написала сусідці «допоможи» і знову розплалася на підлозі.
Потім бігала сусідка, ще якісь лікарі, жінку поклали на ноші і забрали. “Мур, мур, мур…” — казала вона сусідці. Та спочатку подумала, що жінка марить, але так настійливо кошила в бік Кота, що сусідка пообіцяла: “Так, нагодую я твоє чудовисько, не переймайся”.
Потім, через кілька днів лікар сказав жінці, що її кіт полегшив її інсульт, так як кровопускання знизило тиск, і ще багато розумних слів. Жінка зрозуміла його, вона доволі швидко одужала і її виписали на постільний режим, з чесним словом не займатися справами хоча б місяць.
— Мур! Мур!
Кажуть, що коти відходять “на Веселку” не тому, що не хочуть травмувати психіку господаря. Ба більше, коти навіть нічого не знають про цю психіку. Кажуть, вони просто йдуть куди попало, тому що не розуміють, що біль приходить зсередини, що вона сидить у них самих, і вони йдуть, щоб від цієї болю втекти.
Мур сховався в теплиці, засунув голову під годівницю, і біль відійшла. Відійшла разом з життям. А ще кажуть, що якщо в сім’ї захворів кіт, то значить оберіг якийсь з жителів сім’ї, і треба обов’язково придивитися у себе до того місця, що захворіло у кота, може там засіла якась хвороба. Ось такі вони самовиражаючі…
You Don’t Deserve It — “After my divorce, I thought I’d never trust anyone again,” Andrew admitted, fidgeting with his empty espresso cup. His voice cracked and wavered so convincingly that Kate found herself leaning closer. “You know, when someone betrays you, you lose a part of yourself. She left me with wounds I thought would never heal… I honestly didn’t think I’d survive.” Andrew’s stories poured out for a long time: about his wife who never appreciated him, the pain that wouldn’t let go, the fear of starting over. Each word settled in Kate’s heart like a warm little stone. She imagined herself as the woman who could restore his faith in love—how they’d heal his scars together, how he’d realize true happiness was possible with her by his side. He first mentioned Max on their second date, casually dropped in between dessert and coffee… — “I have a son, by the way. He’s seven. Lives with his mum, but stays with me every weekend. The court said so.” — “That’s wonderful!” Kate beamed. “Children are a blessing.” She started daydreaming: Saturday morning breakfasts for three, trips to the park, TV evenings together. The boy needed a woman’s care, a mother’s warmth. She could become a second mum—not a replacement, but someone close, someone family… — “Are you sure you don’t mind?” Andrew watched her with a crooked smile she mistook for wariness at the time. “A lot of women run when they hear about a kid.” — “I’m not most women,” she said proudly. Her first weekend with Max was a celebration. Kate made blueberry pancakes—his absolute favourite, as Andrew had tipped her off. Patiently, she helped him through his maths homework. She washed his dinosaur T-shirt, pressed his school uniform, made sure he was in bed by nine sharp. — “You should have a rest,” she told Andrew after he’d sprawled out on the sofa with the remote. “I’ve got this covered.” Andrew nodded—or so it seemed then, gratefully. But now she realized it was the nod of a man taking his due. Time marched on. Kate worked as a logistics manager, out by eight, home after seven. Decent salary by London standards—enough for two. But there were three. — “Hold-up on site again,” Andrew would say as if announcing a hurricane, “Client’s pulled out. But there’s a big contract coming, I promise.” The “big contract” hovered on the horizon for a year and a half, sometimes getting closer, mostly never arriving. But the bills always came—rent, utilities, internet, groceries, child support for Marina, new trainers for Max, school contributions. Kate paid all of them, quietly. She skimped on lunches, brought in tupperware pasta, walked home in the rain to save on cabs. She hadn’t had a manicure in a year—did her own nails and tried not to remember the luxury of professional treatments. Three years, and Andrew had given her flowers exactly three times. Kate remembered each bouquet—cheap roses from the convenience kiosk near their tube stop, droopy and with snapped-off thorns. Probably on special offer… The first was an apology after Andrew called her hysterical in front of Max. The second came after an argument about a friend who visited unannounced. The third, when he missed her birthday because he lingered with mates—simply forgot. — “Andrew, I don’t want expensive gifts,” she tried to keep her voice gentle. “Just… sometimes I’d like to know you’re thinking of me. Even a card…” His face contorted instantly. — “So it’s all about money for you, is it? Presents? Don’t you care about love? Or what I’ve been through?” — “That’s not what—” — “You don’t deserve it.” Andrew spat the words at her like dirt. “After all I do for you, you still complain.” She fell silent. She always did—it made things easier. Easier to live, to breathe, to pretend everything was fine. Yet, for mates’ nights, Andrew always found cash. Pubs, football at the local, café Thursdays. He’d come home tipsy, reeking of sweat and cigarettes, flop onto the bed without noticing Kate was still awake. She convinced herself this was how love worked. Love meant sacrifice. Love meant patience. He would change, surely. She just had to be even more attentive, love even harder—after all, look at what he’d suffered… Talk of marriage became a minefield. — “We’re happy as we are, why do we need a piece of paper?” Andrew waved the question away like a pesky fly. “After what happened with Marina, I need time.” — “It’s been three years, Andrew. That’s a long time.” — “Now you’re pressuring me—always pressuring!” He stormed off, ending the conversation. Kate longed for children of her own. She was twenty-eight, the ticking biological clock growing louder each month. But Andrew wasn’t interested in a second round of fatherhood—he had a son, and that was enough for him. Then came that Saturday—she asked for just one day. One day. — “The girls are inviting me over. We haven’t seen each other in ages. I’ll be back by evening.” Andrew looked at her as though she’d announced she was emigrating. — “And Max?” — “He’s your son, Andrew. Spend the day with him.” — “So you’re abandoning us? On a Saturday? When I’m expecting to relax?” She blinked. In three years she’d never left them alone. Never asked for a day to herself. She cooked, cleaned, tutored homework, washed, ironed—while holding a full-time job. — “I just want to see my friends. It’s only a few hours… And he’s your son. Can’t you spend a day with him on your own?” — “You’re supposed to love my child as much as me!” Andrew suddenly roared. “You live in my flat, eat my food, and now you’ve got the nerve to make demands?!” His flat. His food. Kate paid the rent. Kate bought the food. Three years supporting a man who yelled at her for wanting to spend a day with her friends. She looked at Andrew—twisted face, throbbing temples, fists clenched—and saw him for the first time. Not as a wounded soul, not a helpless victim in need of rescue, but an adult who had learned to expertly exploit kindness. Kate, to him, was not a beloved partner, not a future wife. She was a walking wallet and a live-in maid. That was all. When Andrew left to drop Max back to Marina, Kate took out her suitcase. Her hands moved calmly, no shakes, no doubts. Passport. Mobile. Charger. A couple of shirts and jeans. The rest could be bought later. The rest didn’t matter. She left no note. What could she explain to a man who never valued her? The door closed behind her quietly, no fuss, no drama. The calls started within an hour—one, then another, then a barrage—a shrill, endless trill that made her phone quiver. — “Kate, where are you?! What’s going on?! You’ve gone, there’s no dinner! Am I supposed to go hungry now? What the hell?!” She listened—his voice angry, demanding, full of righteous indignation—and marvelled. Even now, as she’d left, Andrew thought only of himself. How inconvenient this was. Who would make his tea? No “sorry”. No “what happened”. Just “how dare you”. Kate blocked his number. Blocked him on Messenger. On every social platform—brick by brick, she built herself a wall. Three years. Three years with someone who never loved her. Who used her empathy as a disposable resource. Who convinced her that self-sacrifice was love. But that’s not love. Love doesn’t humiliate. Love doesn’t reduce someone to a servant. Kate walked through the twilight streets of London and for the first time in ages, she could breathe. She vowed she’d never again confuse love with self-neglect. Never again give herself away to those who prey on pity. And always, always choose herself. Just herself.
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