III
The picture frame sits propped crookedly upon an untidy desk, the surface of which remains buried beneath layers of all manner of documents: manila file folders, the pages they once contained carelessly strewn about; newspaper clippings, aged and yellowed; mail and legal documents, some never even opened. Each of these lost pages has its own story; though the chaos has obscured the order in which the pieces join together, each is here for a reason. In that respect, the papers themselves are part of an even larger story. Layers of dust tell a story of their own: a story of neglect, to be sure, but the dust is deep. So much could not have accumulated for so long without reason.
Yet another story, as one might imagine, lies in the photograph sealed within the picture frame. Thanks to its surroundings, the colors in the photograph seem as though dulled or subdued, despite the picture itself not having faded. A young woman lays in a bed, surrounded by white on all sides. She receives fluids from an IV, for the doctors fear she may be suffering from dehydration. She is almost human, and yet distinctly feline. Triangular ears sit atop her head, nestled among her blonde locks. On her face as well as beneath the alabaster gown, calico-patterned fur covers the gentle curves of her body. She is tired, but happy. Even in this vulnerable state, her will is indomitable. Her smile is both genuine and fierce.
She is beautiful.
Her back is propped up with pillows, and her face tilted to her right, where an older man is crouching. He is tall, and his features are much sharper than the young woman's, having both a strong jawline as well as sharp lines around the lips of his feline muzzle. The lines wrinkle as he smiles so broadly. He is dressed nicely, in khaki pants, and with the long sleeves of his white, collared shirt rolled up on his arms just past his elbows. His own fur is that of a dark gray; he is a thunderhead standing out among the pure white that makes up almost everywhere else in the scene. His face is turned toward his wife's, as he does his best to match her smile with his own. He is, for the first time, a father. The man's eyes are startlingly blue, and there is hesitance in them.
He is nervous.
He and the woman are looking not only at each other, but also into the face of the tiny bundle they together hold. He is a newborn, wrapped in blankets and fast asleep. His thin fur is a shade of light gray, with the slightly darker stripes of a tabby pattern already beginning to show. His eyes are closed, and he is fast asleep, oblivious to the world. He is a tabula rasa. He has nothing to hide and no intentions to share with the world - not yet.
He is innocent.
The photo in the dusty picture frame tells these stories. There is even a story told by the sticker on the back, upon which the date "12-23-94" has been fancifully inscribed in bright red ink. However, although all of these stories may weave in and out, intersecting with one another, none of them are the story which we have come for today. Today, our story is this:
A shaking hand, covered in light gray fur, silently reaches over the desk and lays the picture to rest face-down, out of sight.
Yet another story, as one might imagine, lies in the photograph sealed within the picture frame. Thanks to its surroundings, the colors in the photograph seem as though dulled or subdued, despite the picture itself not having faded. A young woman lays in a bed, surrounded by white on all sides. She receives fluids from an IV, for the doctors fear she may be suffering from dehydration. She is almost human, and yet distinctly feline. Triangular ears sit atop her head, nestled among her blonde locks. On her face as well as beneath the alabaster gown, calico-patterned fur covers the gentle curves of her body. She is tired, but happy. Even in this vulnerable state, her will is indomitable. Her smile is both genuine and fierce.
She is beautiful.
Her back is propped up with pillows, and her face tilted to her right, where an older man is crouching. He is tall, and his features are much sharper than the young woman's, having both a strong jawline as well as sharp lines around the lips of his feline muzzle. The lines wrinkle as he smiles so broadly. He is dressed nicely, in khaki pants, and with the long sleeves of his white, collared shirt rolled up on his arms just past his elbows. His own fur is that of a dark gray; he is a thunderhead standing out among the pure white that makes up almost everywhere else in the scene. His face is turned toward his wife's, as he does his best to match her smile with his own. He is, for the first time, a father. The man's eyes are startlingly blue, and there is hesitance in them.
He is nervous.
He and the woman are looking not only at each other, but also into the face of the tiny bundle they together hold. He is a newborn, wrapped in blankets and fast asleep. His thin fur is a shade of light gray, with the slightly darker stripes of a tabby pattern already beginning to show. His eyes are closed, and he is fast asleep, oblivious to the world. He is a tabula rasa. He has nothing to hide and no intentions to share with the world - not yet.
He is innocent.
The photo in the dusty picture frame tells these stories. There is even a story told by the sticker on the back, upon which the date "12-23-94" has been fancifully inscribed in bright red ink. However, although all of these stories may weave in and out, intersecting with one another, none of them are the story which we have come for today. Today, our story is this:
A shaking hand, covered in light gray fur, silently reaches over the desk and lays the picture to rest face-down, out of sight.