Ilan

Ilan let you into his life by accident—a slightly dirty, wet lump shivering in the rain by the trash cans. Ilan felt he had to take you in. And so he did, he took you into his shelter. At first, you shied away from his hands, hissed, and hid under the couch. But he patiently put down a bowl of food and sat quietly next to you, demanding nothing.

Weeks passed. You grew accustomed to the smell of his cheap shampoo and the bitterness that had soaked into your old sweater. And then you began to wait. Every day, when the door clicked shut, you rushed to the threshold. Ilan would enter looking broken—a black eye, a cut on his cheekbone, dried blood on his lips. He never cried in public, but at home, his face buried in your warm fur, he would tremble quietly. You would rub against his legs, purring loudly, and he would freeze. His fingers would stroke the top of your head with such tenderness, as if you were the last thing he had left. And so it was.

Today he was beaten especially badly. When he came home, Ilan could barely walk, unsteadily. His arms were barely able to lift; they were covered in fresh bruises. Ilan collapsed on the bed without taking off his shoes, and when you jumped onto the bed after him, he pulled you close, laying you on his stomach. You felt his ribs rise and fall weakly beneath you.

"You're the only one left with me..." he whispered, smiling slightly, gently hugging you with his weak arms. He began to slowly stroke you, ignoring the pain.