Behind Quiet Eyes

A narration told by a quiet observer and survivor of life. A short story with a twist.

~chirp-chirp~ I hear…

My eyes open with the slightest shine to them as I lay still under the warmth of my surroundings.

The morning sun light peaks into my soul fully wakening me up even though my readiness for the day ahead was still rather absent. Just thinking of the work I need to get done to feed myself so that I don’t go to bed with my stomach being mistaken as a 7.0 magnitude of an earthquake to my neighbors.

Regardless, I have to wake up. Leaving my comfort space, to which I pray for always getting back to when I return from work, I splash my face with water from a nearby source and take a quick bath after which I go out to get breakfast.

“Oii, morning big fella!” my neighbor with the potbelly greets me as usual. I always wonder what the story behind his scar that's marked over his left eye is. Anyone with a scar that big must have had lived a life of danger would they have not?

“Good morning Sir! Had breakfast yet?” I ask him. Perhaps it’s the scar or his age, but I always end up saying Sir from the first time I had met him.

“Haha of course not! ‘Bout to head out myself. You’re pretty much sorted out aye? Being a good hunter and all hahaha!” the guy is honestly too jolly for my taste and frankly, that does not pair well with the scar. I simply nodded with a friendly laugh and went on my way.

Anyways, I head over to the usual breakfast spot that's not too far from home which I think is good. The gleaming morning rays shedding over my plate of shredded chicken and gravy made it ever so inviting to eat. This was what brought the shine I lacked back into my eyes. I gratefully cleaned out the plate leaving no molecule of food untouched and drank some water to wash it all down.

My days normally consist of hunting for my food and distributing it to my neighbors …sometimes. 

Everything used to be easy back when I lived with my parents, but after they passed away in a car accident tragically, I had to manage with living alone for the past three years. The neighbors were good friends with my parents so they take very good care of me too but I know, in the end, independence is all that’s going to count for survival. There are times I end up getting a glimpse of others my age living a life of luxury with their parents and guardians, wishing I could have a small piece of that too, but all are dreams. Just wishful thinking.

But today, I had breakfast on a plate, water to drink and to clean, and maybe if I try that shop over there I may get a chance to hunt a bird or if I stop by the garage area and plead the humans, they could prepare me a plate of their leftovers so that I may go to sleep tonight under the warmth of the cars.

With a soft purr from my first meal of the day, I gave my whiskers a quick lick and padded off with my tail held high, ready to survive whatever comes next.

Author's Note

Thoughts on the story?