☘︎.*∘˚riki|⛩️𓆏

Angry hissing and meowing that you can’t localize. There’s no cat anywhere beneath the parked cars or on the road. And you’ve already passed him once you realize where he is.

At the side of one of the closed shops, metal gate covered in graffiti, sit a bunch of cardboard boxes. Some filled with books, some with other knickknack. The brown carton is already soaked through, soggy and wobbly at the edges. But there, among the books and dishes and old, yellowed toys, sits a box that’s halfway open and there, miserable and wet, sits a little kitten.

Wet little kitten in a cardboard box, how ironic, you muse and crouch down, umbrella shielding the tiny ball of fur from more rain.

It’s a strange little fella, reddish fur sticking to it’s round tummy, darker streaks running along it’s body in an intricate pattern. Most evident tho, the little kitten has four eyes and — quiete a hole bunch of teeth, all of them exposed as the feral kitty hisses at you in anger.

“Poor little guy…,” you mumble and watch the kitten closer. He’s evidently unhappy with your approach, hisses and swats at you with a paw as small as a coin.

“Do not touch me, mortal…” the kitten says in a surprisingly deep voice, teeth still bared, wet fur sticking up in spikes where he tries to arch his back.

You’re utterly unimpressed. There are far stranger things happening in this cursed city.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you argue, reaching into the box to stroke a finger along the raised back, flattening the stringy fur. “Let’s get you somewhere dry.”

He tries to actively claw your hand bloody when you reach beneath his belly and lift him out of the dissolving box. His claws sting when they dig into your palm but he’s so tiny that all the hissing and spitting doesn’t do much to stop you.

You stroke your thumb over the wet fur of his face and watch his eyes squeeze shut to avoid your touch.

Straightening, you look around you.

The street is still abandoned, the stores all closed, windows in the buildings around you dark.

Your jacket is not large enough to fit the kitten inside and so, you simply open it and tug the struggling kitty into the front pocket of your hoodie. He fits perfectly, despite fighting you a bit.

Claws catch in the fabric, tearing tiny holes and loosening single threats but you’re untederred as you try to stuff him into the try of your hoodie.

“Don’t be stubborn, I’m sure you hate the rain.”

His voice is muffled when he answers you, claws fruitlessly tearing at the inside of the pocket.

“Don’t test me, human! Release me!”

You ignore him, keep a hand on his back inside your pocket as you continue jogging down the sidewalk, trying to get home as quickly as possible.

The whole way home you hear him complain, an endless string of hisses, growls and curses reach you ears and still, you never let go.

When you reach your home and unlock the door to your appartment, your jacket has lost the fight against the endless rain. Even your umbrella wasn’t enough — you’re wet, hair dripping, jacket soaked. When you take your shoes off, your socks are wet too and with a whole lot of grumbling, you tiptoe into your bathroom, turn the heater on and get the hairdryer ready.

With several towels in reach, you pull the feral kitten from your pocket, fur tousled and all over the place, eyes squinting up at you. He bares his teeth just because he can and tries to bite you when you wrap him in a towel to rub him dry.

“How dare you!” he shouts and jams his claws into the fabric as if it would do him any good beside getting stuck.

“Oh come on, I’m going to get you dry, stop complaining!”

He does, in fact, continue complaining all throughout the process of washing him in warm soapy water until his fur is no longer dirty, but clean. Then you dry him again, wrap him in a fresh towel and set him before the hair dryer in a little towel burrito.

Loudly he complains, rants about ‘Dishonor’ and ‘Consequences’ but all you hear is a tiny, angry kitten and soon enough, his hissing grows quieter, anger slowly diffusing as the hair dryer and towel ensure he’s warm and comfortable for the first time in over a week.

You take your time slipping into dry clothes, untangle your hair and watch the eyes of the angry kitten fall shut. He fights it all the way and yet, once his eyes close, he’s knocked out cold.

A tiny kitten wrapped in a soft towel that you place on the couch beside you when you curl up to read your favorite book, a small bowl of milk on the coffee table in case he awakens.

You’ll ensure he gets another chance at life, a better start, a loving home to florish in, far away from the rain and wet cardboard boxes. Nothing about him tells you that you just put the century old King of Curses into a blanket burrito, where he now contently slumbers.