Barn Cats

The hardwood under my padded feet softens. Not in a comfortable way, but in a way that threatens
to swallow me whole, and I wish it would. He towers over me. Eyes black. His fingers curled into talons.
I insist he listen to me, but even if he did, it wouldn’t matter. My voice is swelling and shaking, my chest
racking with every sob I try to stop.
“I. don’t. know. anymore.” It’s a fragmented sentence. “Please let me go.”
He snatches my wrist and drags me to the stairs. His voice is immense; it expands until the space is
congested, it’s pushing up against the walls, it’s spilling through the windows, and I fear it may erupt
through the roof. I try to take a breath, and my heart bloats, until it’s squeezing against my ribcage. Warm
tears burn down my cold cheeks. My skin, like whiskers, feel the fuming currents. I shrink beneath him.
Eyes blurring. The peachfuzz on my spine is standing on end. There is a clamorous cry, and it is coming
from me.
I am undomesticated.

It’s an hour later. The barn is far away. It’s over the loose dirt road, the dried-out grass, and
through the brisk autumn air. I wish I had four legs so I could get there quicker. Soon, I am climbing the
ladder like a tree, as if each rung is a branch. The space between each rung is vast, yet I pay it no mind. I
was once scared of falling. Now it’s a risk worth taking because that ladder leads to the safest place I’ve
ever been. I am halfway there. I hear light footsteps, shuffling and springing, and then eight pairs of eyes
greet me at the top.

The air feels thinner than it did before, but around him it’s stretching, so tight, I fear it might snap
soon. My sweaty back sticks to the leather seats of the red Tahoe. My sister is next to me in her designated
seat. Her blonde, straw-like hair falls around her crimson cheeks. My grey eyes try to catch the blue in
hers. She purses her lips into a thin line. She must stop this behavior. Our father has already threatened to
stop the car if she continues this attitude. I flex my fingers like claws. My stiff face tries out a smile. My
sister continues to frown. My tongue is rough. I am keenly aware of how it sits against the roof of my
mouth. The air in the car tightens more. There is a rigid silence.
Then there is the raging sound.

It comes from him.
My palms press over my sensitive ears. His frustration has amassed into fury. He slams the car to a stop,
and in a blur of rage, he interjects his anger-ridden body into the back of the car. His fist is in the air. He
strikes. There is a shatter. I finch back with a hasty cat-like reflex. The shatter is so loud, so layered, so
close, I fear it could be something in me. There are sobs and screams, yelps and yells, and the decorative
plates that had once sat between my sister and I are smashed into the seats. Thousands of glass fragments
are littered across our laps, but all I notice is my sister’s fragmented voice.
I am volatile.

I am upstairs in the barn later that night. Each creature is caressing my legs. All they want from
me is my affection. I plop down on a haybale, and they crawl onto my lap, curl around my arms, and lie
beneath my head. I pick up a piece of straw in my hands. I pull it across the floor and trace shapes that I
can’t yet name. Their heads shoot up. First it’s the scrunch, then the wiggle, then the pounce. First there’s
a smile, then a snicker, then the belly laugh. Here I am. A sanctuary amongst straw, safety found in
retractable claws.

Nighttime is my favorite; the serenity makes me come alive. If only it could remain this peaceful.
My mother is in the kitchen, and my father is flipping burgers on the grill. My calico sees me on the deck
and dashes to my hands. I stroke her sleek coat, and in response, she purrs. My sleeves compress my
upper arms. I accidentally pinch my skin in the act of pulling them down. My calico’s ears flick back and
forth. The grill is sizzling. She puts her paws on my leg. The smoke floats around us. She turns her head
to look at the grill. I try to grab her, but she is too nimble. With a stomp of my father’s foot, she’s scared
away. She is not a pest. It is the hunger that pesters her. He tells me he doesn’t like cats.
They’re skittish.
They scratch.
They’re scared.
This must be why he believes it’s okay when his brown, tight-laced boot makes contact with her calico
coat. She’s flung into the air. Her body is a magnet to the stairs. The peace shatters into pieces.
I am a wild animal.

Just outside the red barn, my hands are indented from tree bark. My green capris are squeezing my
ankles. I am hanging upside down on a walnut tree. Below me is my tabby cat. Sitting in the dirt below,
she is looking up at me. Flicking her tail to the left to the left to the left, then to the right. I call to her. In
one swift movement, she scrunches, then wiggles, then pounces. Her arms are wrapped around the tree
trunk. Her pupils enlarge, and she whisks her head around with inquisition. Soon enough, we are both
hanging upside down together. I decide not to tell anybody. I know no one will believe me or the trick my
tabby just performed.

Family gatherings are the worst. I want to crawl under the couch, hide behind the curtains, below
the deck, beneath something bigger and stronger than me. This instinct isn’t acceptable. I am older now,
just entering my teen years, and I must not allow my impulses to master me. It is summer, and my cousins
are in the pool. Their heads full of hair, subdued by a chlorinated blue. My grandma is reclined, her
sunglasses facing the full force of the sun. Other relatives are mingling, murmuring, and allowing abrupt

cackles to crinkle the corners of their lips. Then just out of earshot, my patriotic, Second-Amendment-
loving, conspiracy-believing grandfather sits. His camouflage camp chair is his throne. Our pool speakers

play a mix of pop, 80s rock, and a few country songs, but my grandfather brings his own radio. Summer
smothers my skin. I can nearly feel it peeling away the pale and giving way to something golden
underneath. Now everyone is pulling seats in, my cousins are emerging from the pool, and my father
announces that everyone should prepare for dinner. Playful poking and prodding ensues amongst the
family. I am grinning now like the Cheshire cat.
Across the patio, my dad teases Grandma. She shakes her head and smiles before opening her
mouth to retort. Someone beats her to it. My grandfather is no longer out of earshot. He looms over her.
His presence is prickling. It is a drastic contrast to the previously amicable atmosphere.
“Don’t talk about your mother like that.” He demands.
“I’m just kidding. We were all just teasing. She knows that.” Dad explains with his smile falling off his
face.
“You do not speak to your mother like that.” It is accusing and cutting. Everyone is silent. Still.
“You know I was just-”

“You don’t get to say that.” Grandfather cuts him off. “You-”
Their claws come out. A father confronting father.
I’m not sure anyone else can see it.
There’s a glinting animalistic behavior that eclipses their eyes. I am unaware of how to respond until, in
the heat of their hissing, they pull them away from the family. I chase after my father. Legs racing, yet
crawling at the same time. This tingling sensation squirms along my spine up to my neck. My heart is
heaving, pummeling my interior like a caged animal. I want to throw up. Maybe I swallowed too much
pool water. I am keenly aware that I am the only one behind them.
A singular witness.
“I don’t want to see you on my property again.” My father’s face is red, and his finger is pointed, jabbing
through the air as if his finger itself could push Grandfather away. Grandfather’s voice is booming, and
Father’s is strident.
I am close enough to see past my father’s shoulders and into my grandfather’s silver truck. He gently
places his wrinkled hand on the center console.
“Do you know what is in here?”
It is not a question.
My pale skin pales. With hair on end, I am stopped in my tracks.
I know what is in there.
I can feel the weight of the small steel object. My mind is stuck. It’s dragging through as if the moment is
made of mud. I do not know what is happening, but I know I am feeling fear in a way I never had before.
It takes hold of my stomach from each end and wrings it out,

twisting,

twisting,

twisting.

Then things wrap up as quickly as they unfolded. Grandfather climbs into his truck. He hastily steers out
of the driveway, and dust billows out from under the tires. Dad doesn’t move. I search his expression.
There is something vulnerable and weak willing itself out from the anger in his eyes. It’s wanting. It’s
desperate. Despite the injury inflicted, there is an eagerness to help the thing that hurt him. Blood draws
blood. His claws are retracted.
Perhaps he, too,
is a barn cat like me.