Atticus [wip]

The unique, defining quality to this tom is his love of books. He’s viewed as the pitifully broken cat who lives in the library and cares obsessively about the books within – almost to the point of loving them more than his own life. Indeed, Atticus is very protective of his beloved stories, and he can’t help but take any insult to them as an attack on him. Where another cat might simply see rotting paper and broken spines, he sees small worlds into which he can dive in order to forget that the one he’s in is so unfair. These stories offer him a precious refuge from the harsh reality that he is alone. He finds tales that remind him of his humans, and even though he logically knows that he’ll probably never see them again, he likes to imagine that they’re sitting beside him, reading to him. His need for the books, which unfortunately manifests itself in a manic obsession about maintaining their well-being that earns him more teasing than understanding, has become a visceral part of him. They are the glue that holds his pieces together and prevents him from completely falling apart, because he’s never had to live on his own before, and he’s trying to survive but it’s so hard. Before, his humans had been his world. He had always pictured himself growing old beside them, sleeping curled up against them, and now that they’ve been torn away, he cannot bring himself to let go just yet.

This loneliness lingers in the air around him and lurks in his mannerisms. Atticus is a social cat, but he’s never had to worry about making friends before. He knows the concept in theory, just as he knows quite a few others, but he’s found that it’s a lot harder to do it than to read about it – especially because a large part of him is afraid of others. Inseparable and intertwined, fear and loneliness go hand in hand. Strangers had always set him a little on edge, but they never used to set his heart racing like they do now. Distress makes his tongue sharp and turns his words into weapons, and he does not handle large groups particularly well, often choosing to turn tail and run before they can get too close. But the fear runs deep. With the wound on his heart still raw and open, he is reluctant to let anyone else in because he knows how much it hurts to lose those he loves and he doesn’t want that again. He doesn’t think he can handle getting left behind another time.

If someone ever managed to climb over his walls, however, they would find a cat with a good heart and a wonderfully vivid imagination. Though he doesn’t seem like it at first, Atticus can and will talk quite a lot about his stories to anyone who will listen – and he has a lot to say. Blessed with a very good memory, he forgets almost nothing he’s told, especially the stories that he has grown to love so much. And truly, this is what holds him together. The books are the physical manifestation of his imagination, but his secret is that he can’t actually read. He likes to pretend he can because he finds the illusion comforting, yet the words on the page are nothing more than faded squiggles to him. He looks at the weathered covers or the worn illustrations and draws upon his inherent creativity and what he can recall from those warm nights with his owners to create a world of his choosing.

Born on the streets to a loner, Atticus never knew that he had ever spent any time as a stray feline. When he was very young, everyone in his little family of three fell sick, and had it not been for a generous man, Jim, and his young daughter, Alice, he likely would not have survived. The humans took care of the pitiful cats, and their home became his; his very first memories are of the warmth of blankets and gentle stroking along his side. The attentive care was all that he needed to thrive, but he was alone in that regard. While he recovered from the illness, his mother (Janie) and brother (Jay) seemed to worsen. His mother had always been a frail cat, and struggling for survival had done nothing to improve her condition. It seemed as though her firstborn son had inherited the trait.

His brother died first, and looking back, Atticus thinks that his passing was the final blow for his mother. After experiencing what no parent ever should, she slipped away with little ceremony in the night. She simply stopped breathing and left her remaining son to the care of Jim and Alice. At 4 moons, Atticus was just old enough to comprehend what had happened.

And so, he grew up alone under the watchful eye of the father and the young girl. Both were avid readers, and he became accustomed to their company. Every night, he would curl up with them and listen to the books Jim would read at bedtime. The older human had a reassuring voice, warm and deep, and he imparted his love of literature and good stories on both his daughter and his cat. In a world where they were valued more for kindling than what knowledge they held, whole books were a novelty, and they would read whatever they could get their hands on. As a result, Atticus grew up hearing a wide range of material – bits and pieces of a biology textbook one week and a story about witches and wizards the next. They didn’t have much, but it was still a good life.

So, naturally, it could never last. Jim and his daughter built up quite a collection of books, and even when the winter was frozen and the frost bit at their fingers and toes, the pair refused to use their ready supply of paper to build a fire. It wasn’t right, they claimed, that such works be so disrespected. They would make do some other way as they had all the other years. With warmth in his heart, Atticus found himself agreeing; the stories were treasures that should be protected, not sacrificed. But they were alone in their opinion. Word traveled of the humans who were hoarding kindling to themselves and letting it go to waste.
WIP