Fun fact: All Tabby cats have a distinct M-shaped mark on their forehead.
On the way home from the hospital, I stopped at the hardware shop and bought the rope. I discreetly camouflaged it behind a rug in the boot of the car. I was just about to slam it shut when my neighbour appeared by my side.
“Becky? How are you?” she asked.
“Feeling much better, thanks,” I lied.
I’d just been discharged from St. Michael’s psychiatric hospital. It had been my sixth admission, and I only ever seemed to come out marginally improved. It seemed pointless to tell her the truth, that I was worse than ever. I remember thinking that if I’d been in a general hospital and been diagnosed with heart disease or cancer, I’d probably have gotten a more sympathetic ear. All I had was plain old depression — an invisible cross that had weighed heavily on my shoulders for two decades.
“If you need anything…” she patted me on the shoulder.
“Just ask. I know…” I said in my head, getting into the car.
It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. My malaise was mine, and mine alone.
In my self-absorption, I forgot to thank her for looking after Angel, my five-year-old Tabby cat. Mind you, there wasn’t much minding to be done when it came to Angel. While I spent long spells of time inside, she spent most of hers outside. Still, we were two of a kind. We lived together, but we weren’t living. Not really.
In the kitchen, I ran my hand under the tap, but no water came out. Reality kicked in faster than a Serena Williams serve. The taps in St. Michael’s had electric eyes and only released water in short bursts — a safety precaution designed to deter those considering drowning. I wasn’t in there anymore. I was back home. As I turned the handle to open the tap, I heard that familiar voice in my head:
“You’re as good as institutionalized, dear.”
I didn’t disagree.
My family hadn’t visited me once during my incarceration. Judging by the disapproving glares from Angel, she’d had enough, too. I could see her nose pressed firmly against the cat-flap entrance outside. I reluctantly lifted the plastic screen, and she crawled in. I filled her bowls with fresh food and water, hoping she’d allow me to pet her. As soon as my hand went out, Angel flinched.
“What am I going to do with you, Angel?” I sighed, but my words fell into the empty space she left behind as she fled from me.
In fairness to Angel, she had good reason to be disappointed in me. When I’d adopted her from the local cat rescue home, she had undoubtedly hoped for a better life than her old one. She’d been abandoned and badly abused and didn’t take kindly to physical contact from any human being. She wasn’t the prettiest of kittens either. Her left ear was missing, and her belly was almost bald. She’d literally torn out her hair. The vet told me it was a nervous habit. Poor Angel was all out of trust, and nobody wanted her. Angel and I had so much in common. I’d walked in her paws many times.
I’d been thinking a lot about giving her away to a better home. It would have been the decent thing to do. I’d been away so much due to my recurring bouts of depression, it felt wrong to keep holding on to her. Despite all the years I had spent trying to heal Angel’s trauma, she remained unresponsive. I could relate to that. When I looked at Angel, all I could see was my own troubled future. I didn’t want to see it anymore.
I’d practised with the rope before, so I knew what I was doing. As I wound it around the sturdy attic beam, my conviction grew. My family had suffered enough. I could never give them back the days they had spent worrying about me. My illness had robbed them of the one thing they needed the most — peace of mind. I was going to give it back to them. I had to touch death in order for them to feel alive again. I loved them that much.
I climbed up onto the old, rickety chair from the dining room. The double knot of the rope felt comfortable around my neck. I gave it a little tug just to make sure it was secure and tight. My feet were a full foot from the floor. I rocked the chair from side to side as I offered up a final prayer for forgiveness. I closed my eyes and readied myself to kick the chair away. I was scared I’d fail, and of all my options, failure was not one of them. I started to count. One. Two. Three…
Suddenly, Angel was clinging to my left leg, wailing and crying. Her claws dug into me, tearing through my clothes and slicing into my skin. I looked down at her and then back up at the rope. It was clear she needed to go to the toilet and wanted to get out through the cat flap.
I tried to shoo her away, but the more I did, the more agitated she became. I couldn’t leave her like that. It wouldn’t be long before she went into some corner and peed there. That would be degrading for her. I didn’t like the thoughts of her watching what I was doing either. She’d had more than her fair share of suffering already. Reluctantly, I slid the rope from my neck and climbed down from the chair.
“Angel,” I sighed, walking down the stairs. “You sure know how to pick your moments.”
I opened the screen door of the cat flap for her to go through.
“Go on then,” I encouraged her, but Angel sat down by my heel and didn’t move an inch.
Suddenly, I felt very tired and walked upstairs to my bedroom. I passed the hanging rope on the landing, a grim reminder of my aborted mission. I’ll try again later, I thought to myself, as I lay down on my bed. Angel crawled up on my chest and spread herself right across my body. She’d never done anything like that before.
I was so taken by surprise and overcome with joy that I lay frozen and still. I was aware that any movement from me might cause her to leap in fright. I cried as I felt her breath against my face, her paws possessively clinging to my shoulders. I was so startled by her uncharacteristic behaviour that I forgot about everything else.
Eventually, I fell into a deep sleep. When I awoke the following morning, Angel was still there, huddled close to my chest and purring gently in my ear. It was only then I remembered that the cat-litter tray was where it had always been — at the bottom of the stairs and not outside. She hadn’t needed to go out. She was truly trying to save me.
As the new day dawned, so did the miracle. It was the day Angel lived up to her name. It was the day I realized we all have a purpose, and it was the day I chose to live again.
~Catherine Barry
