Stormy

NOTE: This story makes people cry.

“Where'd you grow up?” people ask me.

I used to never have a good answer for that. How can you tell where you grew up? Growing up doesn't happen all at once like losing your virginity or getting a tattoo. It's a lot of little things, and some big things, that happen over time. Like a mountain, there are earthquakes that slice a big chunk off or push a new peak up; but the wind and rain work their will into you over time. We don't see all the little things, and sometimes when the earthquakes come, we're too close to notice. Sometimes we do notice.

When I was nineteen, I lived in Louisiana. I worked in the oil fields of the Gulf of Mexico. Three weeks each month I spent on a drilling rig, totin' pipes and haulin' mud. The fourth I spent at Steve and Mary's. The rent was cheap and it was a decent place to crash. Whenever Steve was in from the fields, the rest of the crew would party at his place. I was the only one that lived there.

None of us had to work when we were home, and the paymaster made sure we always landed with plenty of cash spilling out of our pockets. We'd drink till the wee hours of the morning, playing cards or video games in Steve's living room after the bars closed. This was before Louisiana decided they needed federal funding for roads enough to raise the drinking age to the country-wide standard of twenty-one.

I lived there for a little over a year. Just before I left for good, I had a cat -a kitten, the runt of a litter of four. He was nothing but a tiny ball of fluff, like a little grey rain cloud. I named him Stormy.

I was home the week he was born, so I couldn't handle him. I staked my claim, then went away for three weeks. When I came back, he was up and running around. His eyes had opened, but still had that blue color to them and they didn't seem to work very well. His meow was weak, like he wasn't sure yet what it was for or how to work it. I could get him to try to pounce on my hand, and if I pulled it away at the last second he'd fall down trying to change direction to chase it. He never got tired of being tricked. The whole week, we could only play for a little while before he had to take a nap or eat. Then I left for another two weeks.

While I was gone, he grew. By the time I got back, he had doubled in size. He was still a tiny little thing; I could hold him in my cupped hands with plenty of room to spare. Now he was starting to look and act like a real cat. He never fell when I moved my hand; he even caught it sometimes, when I let him. and he now knew how to grip it with his front claws while scratching with his back legs. Pretty soon he'd be a full-fledged killer, prowling the streets of this quiet neighborhood, catching small animals and fighting with the big ones. He would continue to grow up right before my eyes, and I probably wouldn't even notice it. It wouldn't be long before attacking my hand would become so boring he would only come around to be petted and fed, if he came around at all.

The rest of the crew was still offshore. I had come in early from the rotation due to a severely ingrown toenail on my left thumb-toe. I shoved the nail up in there a few months earlier, and just hadn't gotten around to getting it looked at. What forced me was the dried blood caked up all over the front of my sock at the end of every day on the rig. That and the fact that I could barely walk, much less carry pipes and mud. I couldn't get an appointment until the next Monday, so I spent the whole week on the couch with Stormy, hanging out and sacrificing brain cells to the gods of daytime TV.

Saturday morning, the crew came in from the fields for their week off. Steve got home around noon and told me we were having a birthday party for Spike.

"Spike?" I asked him. "Why? We hate that guy."

"Yeah," he answered, "I know. He caught Sandra in bed with Tom when he got home today. Kinda felt sorry for him."

I rolled my eyes at him. Sandra was Spike's wife. Tom was his brother. It wasn't the first time.

"Yeah, so what's the big deal? He should be used to it by now. He's just gonna be an ass and bully people."

"C'mon, this is only the third time. It's his birthday, dude. Have a heart. I made him promise to behave." Steve didn't sound too sure.

Steve and I took a trip to the liquor store around one for party provisions. By three thirty, we had to go make another run, there wasn't enough booze left for the guests. I say we, but I really mean the Mary-by-herself version of "we". The me-and-Steve "we" were too drunk to drive, wrapped up in a Mortal Kombat tournament, and listening to Steve's expansive T-rex 8-track collection. Stormy was curled-up in my lap most of the day. Between naps he attacked my controller wires and nibbled on the end of my shoe. Around dusk I decided I was getting too drunk to keep track of him, and folks were supposed to be showing up soon, so I took him outside.

I walked over to the little covered wooden crate around the corner of the house and deposited him on the down comforter I'd bought for his bed. He mewed, a plea to let the playtime continue. I couldn't resist and spent another ten minutes making him chase my shoelace in the grass. Then the clouds started rolling in. I could tell by the smell that a full-fledged Louisiana spring thunderstorm was imminent. I hobbled back inside and left him with his mother.

As I stepped through the entrance, I caught my ingrown toe on the lip of the doorjamb. There was a nine-inch rise from the concrete patio to the bottom lip of the door. The pain was wrenching; it shot through my leg and nestled deep in my gut, where it rested. Spinning steel spikes of agony tore me apart. I fell to the floor, clutched at my toe, and prayed for the pain to pass. I noticed a tennis ball behind the couch. I picked it up, flung it at Steve's head, and creatively cursed him for not putting in the step he had promised to install last summer. He told me I should quit whining like a sissy and learn how to walk.

The pain began to fade, and I sat up in a wooden dining chair to let it pass in a little more comfort.

Spike arrived, all six-foot-two inches and three-hundred pounds of stupid. He wasn't really muscular or fat, just big. He was solid like a rubber garbage can filled with jell-o; though I've had far more intellectual conversations with a garbage can than I think Spike could ever handle. He wasn't really mean, but he definitely wasn't nice. He was more indifferent than anything, except maybe selfish. His thought processes didn't get much past what Spike wanted, and he didn't really care what anybody else thought or had to say about it.

"What's wrong with you, dumbass?" he said. Gazing at my foot in bemusement.

"Ingrown toenail, hurts like hell," I replied.

"Really? So does it hurt when I do this?" he said.

He then stomped with all of his weight on my injured toe.

I started to reach up to grab him or push him or do whatever I could, but fell back to the floor as the pain shot through my system and doubled me over. It was the same pain as before, only the angle and his weight made it ten times as intense. All I could do was scream and try not to let him see the tears forming at the corners of my eyes.

While I lay there, I noticed an ice-pick on the carpet beneath the dining table. I let my mind develop a fantasy where I stuck the ice-pick through the side of his sneaker and wiggled it around in his ankle joint to let him get a little taste of his own medicine, but I thought better of it. It would stop hurting eventually, and I didn't want to give him reason to come after me in anger; playing around was bad enough. He was stupid but he was big, and it didn't take a whole lot of brainpower to crush someone half your size. I just took it, he would get his some day. We all reap what we sow, eventually.

By the time the pain was gone, his laughter had also subsided. Little chuckles still escaped, along with the occasional muttered "dumbass." He sounded quite proud of himself. Steve made no sign he noticed any of this, and he calmly stowed the beer Spike had brought in the fridge.

"All right, Spike," I said through clenched teeth. "I'll let you have that one, but you'd better stop playing around. That toe is killing me."

"Yeah, pussy," he said, "whatcha gonna do about it if I don't?"

"Nothing", I said, with a quiver in my voice that I tried my best, in vain, to hide. "Just don't do it, okay?"

"I'll do whatever I damn well please, bitch. It's my birthday."

That pretty much summed up his attitude for the evening. He drank, got loud, and got obnoxious. About ten of our friends
showed up for the party, and did their best to avoid him. Fifteen or so of Mary's single friends also came during the course of the evening, but he managed to chase them off, one by one. He grabbed them and caught them in bear hugs, shouting, "Hey there, girl! Wanna get frisky wif a real man?" while their legs dangled six inches from the floor.

Around ten, the thunderstorm I predicted came in, full force, and lightly flooded the streets and lawn. I was worried about Stormy. I poured a bowl of milk and went outside to check on him. I set the saucer down next to the door and went around the corner to his little home. The crate was soaked, but proved almost water tight, as the comforter and various little cat toys I had bought him were only slightly damp. He and his mother were curled up in the corner. He shook at the noise of the rain and thunder. I decided to break the rule and set up a bed on the porch for the night. I scooped them both up into my arms and carried them to the front porch. They attacked the saucer of milk with gusto while I went inside to find a dry box and some blankets to use for shelter.

I found a VCR box and a soft but ratty blanket to pad it in the hall closet. An explosion of raised voices and screams erupted from the living room, and I rushed to investigate. Spike was red-faced and angry. He stood in front of the entryway with a half-empty bottle of scotch in his hand. His shirt was soaked with beer. A girl named Sarah was hiding behind Steve. She shook at Spike's voice the way Stormy did at the thunder.

"What the hell, Steve?" Spike was asking. "You're gonna let that little bitch get away with this."

"Well, uh, I don't, I mean, I, well, not exactly, Spike," Steve said. You could tell he didn't want to deal with this, but had to. "It's no big deal, man, I mean, so you got a little beer on your shirt, don't be such a pussy. Sarah, just apologize."

"I will not apologize, Steve." She was livid. "He grabbed my cooder and told me he was going to take me in the back and show me how to use it. Rick is gonna kick your ass, Spike."

"What the hell? I ain't afraid of your little faggot boyfriend. Steve, I'm leaving. I don't wanna play with these punks anymore." He opened the door and turned back to face us. “I don't need any of you bitches," he said as his foot began to come down behind him.
I looked past him, at the edge of the door, and I saw little Stormy poke his head up under Spike's descending foot.

"Spike! Look out for-" I cut myself off and turned away as I heard my kitten's spine break with a crunch. Spike's foot landed on Stormy's back with all three hundred pounds of bulk behind it. A brief squeak was all Stormy offered in defense. Everyone else went silent and froze in place; everybody except Spike, who shook his leg to free the kitten from the bottom of his shoe. He came loose and settled on the concrete with a limp plop.

"Stupid cat," he said.

I rushed past him onto the cold, damp patio. Stormy just laid there. His eyes were half closed, and his mouth opened and shut slightly. A mixture of saliva and blood bubbled out of his mouth and nostrils with his breath. Both rear legs were crushed. They bent the wrong way, in five different places. His back was like a bag of broken glass; little lumps and sharp points tried to poke their way through his fur, some did. He still had a tiny bit of milk in his whiskers, and it mixed with the blood to make white and pink swirls in the pool of fluids spreading out from his head. His breath made his tiny chest expand and contract with a grinding noise like dry twigs being rubbed together in your hand. He was not dead yet, someone had to finish it.

I looked towards the door. Steve and Mary were standing in silence, their faces twin masks of silent empathy. Spike just stood there with a stupid grin on his face, chuckling.

"Aww, did the poor widdle kitty get hurted?" he asked.

"Shut up, Spike," I said. Low and calm, it was an irresistible command at that moment.

He looked at Steve, then looked at me, and realized it was best to just let the moment pass. He didn't seem happy about it, but I figured we'd deal with that later.

"Get me a shovel, Steve," I said.

He disappeared into the house. I picked up my kitten. Stormy didn't seem at all like his old self. His fur was still soft and he was still warm, but his body didn't seem to know how to move anymore. His lower half flopped randomly and almost rolled right out of my hand. I laid him on his back and stroked his belly once more. He looked up at me as if questioning, trying to make sense of what had happened to him. One moment he was peeking up over the doorjamb, just trying to see what all the fuss was about. The next he was crippled, in pain, and dying slowly.

I had never killed before. I never hunted, never fished, never shot squirrels with pellet guns like the other neighborhood kids. I never felt I had the right to hurt another creature. I didn't know if I had it in me to take this life now, but I had to try. I kissed Stormy on the forehead and asked him to forgive me.

I grabbed his head with my left hand, the thumb and forefinger around his throat. His whiskers tickled my palm. I tightened my grip around his body and felt it squish like a bag full of grease. I pulled my hands apart as I twisted both halves in opposite directions, and nothing happened. I say nothing happened, but what I really mean is he didn't die, his infant-like neck was so flexible that all I succeeded in doing was to squeeze blood all over my hands and shirt. I kept up the pressure as he mewed like a baby, pathetic, needy; crying for some kind of relief from the hell he was in.

Then I heard the snaps. One out loud, that everyone could hear, that was his neck. Mary flinched and squealed at the sound. The other was inside me, I was the only one that could hear it.

Steve came outside with the shovel.

"It's raining, Jason. We can wait to bury him. I can get a box or something to keep him in till morning."

"No. I'm doing it now," I said.

Steve's voice was barely audible through the noise of the blood rushing through my ears. I could barely see him through the blackness that crowded my vision. I reached for the shovel.

I walked out into the yard and picked a spot. The rain drenched me, but I didn't care. I dropped Stormy's body on the ground and pushed the shovel into the earth. The wet ground was easy to dig, but the hole kept filling with water and mud. Once cleared, I shoved Stormy into the watery hole and heaped shovels full of mud in on top of him. I wasn't much for church, but I said a silent prayer for God to take care of him before I slapped the mud down with the flat face of the shovel.

I turned and walked back to the patio. I couldn't understand how I could have been watching "Hogan's Heroes" in the morning and burying him that night. I was numb, until I saw Spike.

He was still standing there, wearing his dopey smirk. Waiting for the signal that it was okay to start being an idiot again. I guess he got a little impatient.

"What's the matter, J? Your pussy hurt?" he snickered. He must have been working on that one the whole time I was dealing with the mess he'd caused. I guess he was smart enough to appreciate a pun, even if he didn't know what one was.

My mind and heart were unhinged but I was calm outside, still. I stared at him for a second, speechless. Then I looked down at my hands, covered in mud and still stained with Stormy's blood despite the soaking of the rain. When my attention wandered to the shovel, glistening wet in the porch light, I knew how to answer.

"No, Spike. He's feeling no pain now. How's your head?"

"What? My head. My head is fine."

"Oh,” I said. “Let's fix that, Check this out."

I pointed at the end of the shovel, which I hoisted up over my shoulder and held like a baseball bat with both hands.

"What? Fix what? I tol-"

He never got a chance to finish his sentence, as I swung at his head with the shovel with every bit of strength that rage and sadness could deliver. I swung like Mighty Casey going for the last home run of his Mudville career. When I made contact with the side of his thick skull the other side slammed against the wall of the house before collapsing on the patio floor. I threw the shovel on his chest with the muddy end positioned over his bloated face, and walked inside to get cleaned up.

"Somebody needs to take Spike to the hospital," I said as I walked past the paty crowd. "Or not," I added thoughtfully from the bathroom before closing the door.

I washed Stormy's blood off my hands and threw the shirt in the trash. I went into my room and packed my bags. The ticket back home to Georgia cost seventy-five dollars and gave me three days to think about what happened.

I never saw any of them again.

“Where'd you grow up?” people sometimes ask me.

“I'm still working on it,” I always reply now, “but I'm pretty sure it started with Stormy.”