Trouble within

At least no one would bully Freddy anymore...

But I had forgotten that besides threats from outside, there was trouble within.

The semester soon passed, and the annual parent-teacher conferences began. Of course, no one attended mine. I thought Freddy had no one either, but he did. Of course, that came later.

A stray cat had recently moved onto our street, a black cat with a slightly swollen belly. Like Freddy a few months ago, she came to rummage through my trash can.

Freddy and I staked out the place for two days and finally caught her.

Now this place had become the little cat's temporary stopover. She often came to my backyard at an unhurried pace late in the afternoon, just before dark, and meowed at my window.

Then the human living in this box would offer her food.

I had tried adopting her too... but... the kitty said she was free. The kitty would not live in a box with a human. Ahead of the kitty lay the stars and the forest.

I watched the little cat run off after eating, without the slightest intention of staying. My eager hands reached out, then dropped again.

Freddy had no such urge. Whenever the cat came, he always hid inside, sitting beside the little window. Even when he stayed outside, he stood far away.

Freddy thought he didn't like cats, but he liked me.

So he never tried reaching out to touch her, but he would still take the cooked meat left cooling in the kitchen and put it on a plate for me.

I thought Freddy liked cats, but cats didn't seem to like him much.

So he always stood at a distance and stared intently. When he saw the cat eating hastily, occasionally pausing, her paws scrabbling at the edge of the plate and her belly bulging gently, a worried look would appear on his face without him even realizing it.

I leaned against the windowsill and watched, holding back a laugh. A few days ago, I had kept saying I was afraid the meat would burn the cat, and deliberately let it cool longer after cooking it. He always tested its temperature with his hand, even when it had already been sitting on the table for an hour.

Today, the sky had already begun to darken, but the little cat still hadn't come. I couldn't help worrying, and neither could Freddy, but there was nothing either of us could do. We had never seen her anywhere outside this backyard, so we didn't know where to look.

The human decided that if he saw the kitty again, she would no longer be free. The human was going to adopt her.

Freddy was worried too, but he had already stayed longer than he was allowed.

He could only give me a reluctant look before running home.

He really had come home late today. The moment he opened the door, his heart sank. His foster mother wasn't there. Usually, at this time, he would be either in the kitchen or in the living room. If he wasn't in either place, that meant she was in the bedroom.

There was only one reason he would be in the bedroom: his foster father had gone mad again. Sure enough, one step farther brought an overwhelming stench of alcohol. Not paying attention, he even kicked a glass bottle, which rolled away with a clear clinking sound.

Freddy's heart lurched. Instinctively, he wanted to run, but he forced himself to stay rooted to the spot. Heavy breathing came from the living room sofa, tightening around his throat like a cold iron wire.

At the noise, his foster father quickly noticed him. Those yellow, bloodshot eyes stared fixedly at him, like some sort of monster.

"Finally decided to come home, you little bastard!"

He used such coarse language even toward an eight-year-old child. He stood up and looked Freddy up and down with utter disrespect, as though looking at a filthy stray dog by the roadside.

"I went to school today. You should thank me. I even attended your parent-teacher conference. But..."

His tone turned mocking as he said with a sneer,

"I heard you've been getting bullied at school all this time? What? Didn't inherit anything from that birth father of yours?"

Freddy trembled, clutching the hem of his clothes tightly, not daring to say a word.

"Since your birth father couldn't teach you, let me teach you how not to get bullied. Come on, you wimp."

Freddy knew nothing good awaited him. He stood there for a long time without daring to move, but his foster father seemed so excited about this that he didn't even bother slapping him for dawdling. He simply grabbed his collar and dragged him roughly toward the basement.

Powerless to resist, Freddy was dragged through that dark, damp doorway, until a few weak cries rang out, still trying to intimidate, to frighten the other party away and protect their owner. But it was futile.

Even in the darkness, Freddy recognized the black cat at a glance. Under the basement's dim light, he saw clearly that there was blood all beneath her, trailing down the stairs into the corner. It seemed she had been caught and then thrown down the stairs.

His foster father shoved a wooden stick into his hands, panting heavily. "Go on. I caught her especially for you. The little beast even scratched me."

Freddy gripped the stick tightly, his body trying to shrink back, but his foster father gave him a hard shove. He drew closer to the black cat, and she saw him too.

The black cat's cries quieted a little when she saw him, only to turn into shrill yowls again when she noticed the person behind him.

Of course Freddy noticed the change. He knew this cat recognized him. He rarely cried, because he knew the more he cried, the harder he would be beaten. But this time was different. He truly didn't want to hurt the cat.

Trembling, Freddy backed away until he pressed against the person behind him.

"I... I won't..."

"What did you say?" The threatening tone made Freddy tremble even harder.

"No..."

His foster father raised his hand and slapped him across the face, knocking him to the floor.

"Don't have the guts? Then you'll spend your whole life under other people's feet! Today I'll teach you to be ruthless! Hit her! Beat her to death! Even this beast knows how to bare her teeth, but you? You're nothing but a spineless piece of trash."

"I'll count down from three. If you don't do it, I'll do it for you. Once I've beaten that beast to death, you're next..."

"Three..." Freddy finally tightened his grip on the stick and took a step forward.

"Two..." He raised the stick high, seemingly about to bring it down.

"One..." His foster father let out excited, heavy breaths, as though destroying a child's spirit gave him an incomparable sense of accomplishment.

But Freddy didn't. He turned and slammed the stick into his foster father's ankle, producing a sharp, dull crack.

This shadow that was neither tall nor frail, yet had loomed over Freddy for years, fell to the floor howling. Freddy rushed forward, picked up the cat despite her struggles, and ran outside. Looking at that figure clutching his ankle in a miserable heap and howling, he realized she wasn't that powerful after all.

But there was no time to think further. He went through the basement door, which hadn't yet been closed, then ran outside and straight to the house next door without stopping.

"Klein!"

I was reading when I heard my front door crash open. Looking up, I saw Freddy holding the blood-covered cat, staring at me in panic.

I immediately took both him and the cat to the hospital.

The cat was anesthetized and taken into the operating room.

Freddy stood at the operating room door, craning his neck to peer inside.

I cupped his face instead. Freddy's face was covered in scratches the frightened little cat had left on him.

I took him to a hospital to get a rabies shot, then had his wounds disinfected and bandaged.

We finally returned to the veterinary hospital. The doctor had finished the operation. The cat's pregnancy had been at such an early stage that the kittens hadn't even taken shape. Coupled with the severe impact she had suffered, she had miscarried, but fortunately, the cat herself was all right. She didn't even need to stay for observation. Once the anesthetic wore off, she could leave.

While taking Freddy to get his shot, I had learned the whole story.

Now I felt more than anger toward him. Above all, I was worried. Freddy couldn't go back, or even see him again.

I couldn't stand it anymore. I had to think of something, do something.

Calling the police definitely wouldn't help. At most, they would give him a lecture, and then Freddy would be sent back.

Really, Klein was only a child himself, thirteen and a half at most this year. What good solution could a child like that think of? And what good solution could he actually put into practice?

Carrying the little bed I had bought at the hospital, I took Freddy's hand and went home.

I took Freddy to bathe, changed him into pajamas, made him something to eat, and put him to bed. The cat was also settled properly in the spare bedroom on the second floor, with easily digestible canned food and warm water beside her.

I didn't think this was a good solution, but I had no other choice. I contacted a lawyer and had an agreement drawn up, then prepared an intimidating enough spiel that, like the agreement, had no legal force. I was betting that the damned drunk had little education.

Early the next morning, practically counting down the minutes, I knocked on the door next door.

A woman answered. He had long, messy, light brown hair tied loosely back, and a face full of exhaustion and pallor.

"Hello, can I help you?"

I knew her. She was Freddy's foster mother, the one who wanted to intervene but didn't dare. Though it did little good, she might indeed have held a little kindness toward Freddy. She simply hadn't shown any of it.

"I'm looking for Edward Andewushi."

"He's not here. Come back later."

When this woman heard that I had come looking for her, exhaustion and disgust showed on her face, along with intense fear. In the end, it all turned into sheer exhaustion.

She moved to close the door as she spoke, and I hurriedly stopped her.

"It's urgent. If I don't see Mr. Edward, I swear the next people knocking on this door will be the police."

In the end, I successfully met Freddy's foster father.

He was smoking, giving off a cheap, acrid smell. He had no ashtray and simply flicked his ash into an empty liquor bottle.

"What do you want with me, brat? Itching for a beating? Go find your dad."

Perhaps because I had disturbed his sleep, his words were anything but polite, as though he might reach out and punch me in the face the very next second.