Now, to the creepy part: Recently, I asked my mom, if she knows when exactly the kitten disappeared and what happened to her. She said she had a tumor and was put down. But it was the other cat. I said:

"No, not gray one, the white and giner one"

"What do you mean, she never had a ginger kitten"

"The one that got stuck under a hood as a kitten"

"It was a gray one"

"No, we got her when she was an adult. (Sister's name) gave her drops to treat eye infection"

"I don't remember Mysya having eye infection"

"She didn't, the ginger one did"

I contacted my sister and she ALSO didn't remember a ginger kitten. Neither did her husband.

I start to think I was actually going insane and hallusinated a fake kitty.

But here's the thing -

I searched through my social media and found this. This is me, in my shirt (i think I still have it in wardrobe, if mom didn't tear it into rugs because it got old, if not, i'll update it), holding this kitten.

Sister confirmed that she indeed has a tablecloth similar to one in the background, but suggests that it was my friend's house and I just confused it for her one these photos, as I have a memory span of a goldfish and forget stuff that happened recently. But my friends dropped out of 9th grade and I studied with another, quite unfriendly class. I didn't visit anyone.

I have another memory that may or may not be mine. I was sitting in a cafe, on a beautifully clear day, while a man with no face told me he didn't love me anymore. I was trying not to cry. At a table next to mine, a woman with a helium voice was trying to sell a nice young couple on a timeshare system--I focused on her voice to avoid hearing his voice, I looked at her to avoid his eyes. Was she selling timeshares, or energy drinks, or some kind of insurance marketing program? Sometimes when I remember it, she has a blue dress. Other times, it's floral print. She has a face, but it's every face of every woman whose ever sold something in a coffee shop. Her voice is the soul of fake excitement.

I remember standing outside after, looking up at a fat cloud shining with sunlight, and feeling the breeze on my face, hearing the leaves skitter across the concrete.

There are many types of rain. Rain falling on a field, a river, a roaring ocean. Rain outside a dark window while the fire crackles in the hearth. Rain shimmering in the midday air, rainbows low over green valleys, puddles from rain on the asphalt, rainwater in a lover's hair. Rain plinking on the roof, rushing out of the gutters, beading on giant leaves and firs and flower petals and raincoats, rain cool and warm and icy and rain like steam drifting to earth, kissing in the rain, singing in the rain, running through the rain shrieking, laughing, holding hands. Rain at sunrise and sunset and the witching hour, rain in life and after death, rain sleeping against the windows or pooling through the cracks.

Sometimes I'll draw a blank when trying to remember something I know is there. Or I'll recall something that isn't quite right, a composite instead of something specific. It seems like these composites are replacing my actual memories. Maybe the machine part of me is trying to remake the human part of me in its own image. To replace the "me" that is writing this with another self, one with a broader base of experience and a whole new way of thinking.

Is it thinking? It doesn't feel like it. It feels like something, emphasis on thing, searching for patterns. Patterns I can't see or can't see the way it sees them. I don't know how it works, and that scares me. Maybe soon, there won't be a me to be scared anymore.