Sounds. Tiny. Muffled. [i]Distant[/i]. Little whisper-sensations, too. [i]There[/i] and [i]there[/i]--light pressures, little lines of existence pressing into the nothingness. More sounds. Defined ones, now. A strange noise that is neither song nor cry, but a bubbling mixture of the two. There’s a crinkling as the whisper-sensations blossom into proper movement. Jostling. A sudden halt. Soft, clumsy scratching, a pause, and then a mighty roar as all of reality is created in one thought and ripped apart in the next. He fully feels the rigid shell trapping him only as it is torn away, only sees the fleeting scraps of darkness as it is peeled from eyes he did not realize he possessed. Sound crashes freely over him and he drinks it in, revelling in the delightful [i]fullness[/i] of it all. The air has another quality to it, too, a sort of silent sound. The melody of it swirls through the space--a gentle sweetness that lazily tickles his nostrils, a tantalizing pungency that pulls at a dull yearning in his belly, a bittersharp sterility lurking behind it all. He breathes it in, all of it. And just when it feels as though he is about to overflow with the sensation of it all, a tiny hand wraps its chubby fingers around him and the world explodes into [i]color[/i]. He cannot think. He cannot breathe. He can only [i]be[/i], as the music of creation seeps into every crevice of the universe, flavoring the sights of the world before his wondering eyes. At last ([i]all too soon[/i]), the colors run full, and his surroundings begin to settle. The room is large. Silver paper-scraps litter the floor around him, occasionally burning white in the brief light-flashes that race through the air. Hazy figures begin to solidify into giants, gathered around the space. They are noisy, but he finds that he can let it wash past him without any real effort. He pays them no mind, because there is a soft-faced creature with the most brilliant green eyes beaming back at him. “Kitty,” she says happily. “No, sweetheart,” one of the giants says, reaching over with smooth, measured movements. The world darkens for a minute, but then the hand retreats, one final scrap of paper pinched between its fingers. “It’s a toy puppy. Can you say puppy, Claire?” “Kitty,” she insists, pulling him close to her chest. “He’s Kitty.” The name sinks in, much like the warmth emanating from the girl’s embrace. As her heartbeat pounds a cadence into his ears, Kitty feels the world settle more firmly into place. Sensations stretch and make way for each other, until the kaleidoscope of being has stilled into a viewing-glass. When all is still at last, time begins to flow. [hr] The summer seasons are savory. The air on the playground shimmers in the sweltering heat, so Claire hides in the play tower while Kitty ventures out into the desert to vanquish the fearsome creatures lurking at the bottom of the slide. The monsters shift and change with her mood--sometimes there are nothing more than row upon row of sharp, smelly teeth, while other afternoons give rise to swashbuckling sword-fights with pirates that look suspiciously like the villains from Saturday’s cartoons. He usually winds up needing a swift rescue from Claire, but she never seems to mind swooping in to save the day. If the days smell like wood chips and adventure, the nights are scented with freshly-cut grass and magic, and both day and night is doused in a coat of green. The entire season is green, so green. Almost as green as Claire’s eyes, which dance in the light of the stars as they search for fairies in the firefly-speckled dusk. Kitty points out the devious creatures, even wrestles one to the ground in the hopes that Claire will finally get to see its pixieish face and dewy wings, but it vanishes and Kitty’s efforts are for naught. [i]Next time[/i], he consoles her that evening, after they are tucked into bed. “Next time,” she mumbles. [hr] Autumns are tangy. The air bursts with crispness, as sharp and crunchy as the frost that lines the windows and lawn each morning. Kitty gets his own scarf, a scrap of flannel with the ends snipped into a fringe. Claire winds it around his neck faithfully, gently pulling his floppy ears out of the folds so that they hang free when they venture into the backyard. They are pilots, now. Kitty finds himself strapped to her back as they race through the asteroid field, dodging fire from the enemy ships. He scans the path ahead, and nearly despairs at the sheer size of the Imperial forces surrounding their starfighter. [i]Not looking good, Captain. They’re following us, [/i]he warns, biting down on his Super-Fast-Shooter 5000 and aiming nowhere in particular. He’s long since learned that it never matters where he aims--[i]something[/i] usually explodes. Quite often, that something is empty space. More often, that empty space turns out to be a lamp, picture, or otherwise absurdly breakable object. The empty space at the other end of the barrel flickers for a moment, changes color ([i]orange, orange and round and lying in pieces from where Claire kicked it[/i]), and then another enemy ship appears out of nowhere and Kitty bites back down on the trigger. “We’re taking damage!” the Captain shrieks, yanking the starfighter to one side and then another in an impressive display of finesse. Her current course seems to be leading straight into the biggest starship in the Imperial fleet, but no fear taints the moment. Kitty knows Captain Claire will change direction at the last possible second. The ships tailing their starfighter won’t expect the change, and will crash right into the big one. The Captain, perhaps tired from thinking of such a brilliant plan, forgets to change direction. She and Kitty plow right into the ship and bounce off, reeling. “MAYDAYYY! IMMEDIATE CRASH LANDING!” The Captain yells. Kitty screams as the ship tilts dangerously and then ejects them in a fiery explosion that looks a lot like last year’s Fourth of July fireworks display. He turns to his captain as they fall apart, their momentum carrying them into separate corners of the universe. [i]Captain Claire[/i], he gasps, reaching a dirt-smudged paw toward her staunch expression. [i]I just want you to know that you are the most brave, most awesome, most amazing Captain that I ever flew with, and also Katy from art class is a dirty liar because your painting did not look like a diseased tater tot. It was the most amazing, most beatifulest, most—” [/i] “[b]Claire! Come in for dinner![/b]” Kitty stares at Claire from the other side of the leaf pile. Her green eyes stand out in stark contrast to the sea of reds, browns, and oranges that settle around them. [i]Do you think there’ll be squash?[/i] “Ew. I hope not.” [hr] The spice-scented winter seasons are filled with smells; the color has seeped from the plants to the air. [i]Cinnamon[/i], the sweet scent of afternoons when Chef Claire takes on reigning Cookie King Daddy and Kitty has the Very Important Job of watching to make sure nothing in the oven catches fire. [i]Pine[/i], the smell of evenings spent lying underneath the tree, gazing up into the colored lights and dreaming of the coming holiday. [i]Chocolate[/i], hot and sweet and hot--[i]really really hot ow, be careful Claire--[/i]that warms their hearts and scalds their tongues but is welcome all the same after a cold night of caroling. [hr] Spring is always soft, so it is not too noticeable that the world is fading until Kitty misses an entire summer. Kitty isn’t sure how it happens. One day, he’s out slaying dragons in the cool spring air (and doing most of the work, mind you--High Mage Claire doesn’t seem to have her heart in it, and she keeps muttering something about [i]Freddy[/i] and [i]dumb[/i] and [i]not immature[/i]), and that evening Kitty winds up on a shelf in the closet instead of tucked under Claire’s arm. The next thing he knows, he’s being hauled out into pine-scented air, and there are cookies and hot chocolate and he watches as Claire unwraps present after present. He tries to pretend that he doesn’t notice how [i]boring [/i]her presents are: clothes and books and pens and paper that she seems [i]excited[/i] to receive. Their adventures dwindle. He can see through her imagination. The hunt for fairies is put off, the pirates seem to have repented and become honest sailors, and no Imperial forces come to attack them. Instead, Kitty sits on his shelf and stands guard over this new kingdom, ensuring that Claire’s newly-instated “No boys allowed” rule is not violated. The world quiets. Slows. Fades, ever-so-slightly. One day, surrounded by yesteryear’s dust, Kitty finds that he cannot remember what the color green looks like. [hr] When Claire is fifteen, there comes a storm violent enough to warrant a foray back into her childhood. She pulls Kitty from his shelf and clutches him to her chest as fervently and tightly as the first time they met, and everything settles into place. The world is loud, [i]so loud[/i], as thunder crashes and raindrops slam against her window. Kitty cannot see her eyes, those glorious green eyes, for she doesn’t turn on lamp and world is nothing but stony, ominously-shaded greys, but he can [i][b]feel[/b][/i][b] [/b] [i](her heartbeat, her arms wrapped around his body, the fear-fueled warmth seeping from her embrace)[/i] and he can [i][b]hear [/b][/i] [i](her heartbeat, her breathing as it deepens and slows from a panicked racing to a tranquil wave lapping against the shores of slumber)[/i] and he is content. When the sun rises, Kitty catches a brief glimpse of a blue sky peeking out from behind pale yellow curtains, but then Claire hurriedly stuffs him back on his shelf. The quick pat she gives his head is almost furtive; she [i]pats [/i]and then yanks her hand back, as though the touch of him might condemn her to an eternal childhood. Within a week, the color has drained from the world again. He watches her high school years in grayscale. [hr] She walks in one year wearing a flowing robe and a funny, square hat on her head and the world perks up a bit; the wandering gaze that flows across the walls is as vibrant and energy-filled a ray of sunshine seeking out the first flowers of the spring. She looks right over him, though, and the world fades back into its persistently lackluster state. Later that week, he watches her pack some of her belongings into boxes. The bedroom is black and white when she shuts the door, and he click of the latch is muffled. He feels the time pass, at first. Seasons move in light and dark and light again. The shadows deepen each round, and he fears they will one day refuse to budge. He holds on to time. But then it stops and he floats un t e t h e r e d [hr] Weeks [hr] months? [hr] [i]years[/i] [hr] [i]Sounds.[/i] Tiny. Muffled. [i]Distant[/i]. Little whisper-sensations, too. [i]There[/i] and [i]there[/i]--delicate pressures, little planes of existence pressing bravely against the nothingness. Jostling, a whisper in the silence, distant sensations that have no real connection, no real meaning. The faintest stirring of light as the pressures slip away. Movement, now--movement and a sound like a babbling brook. And then another sound. This one oozes with warmth and flows in and out of his ears as easily as water pours from the sky. [i]“ousaykitty”[/i] He reaches for the sound, gulps at it like a parched creature desperate for any hint of liquid. [i]“Kitty. Kih-tee.”[/i] He knows that sound. He [i]knows that sound.[/i] The world lightens rapidly now, blooming before his eyes. Light wheels and churns as the soundscape struggles to fall into place, and then a small, insistent hand circles around his paw, and the world explodes into [i]color[/i]. He does not think. He does not breathe. He merely [i]is[/i], content to revel in the magnificence of existence as the music of creation seeps into every crevice of the universe, flavoring the sights of the world before his ever-wondering gaze. The baby boy staring back at him has the most brilliant green eyes.