33. Chapter 33

Chapter thirty-three

Present

M orning arrives, and for the first time this week, I wake up free from the clutches of a nightmare. The bed is noticeably empty beside me, Laelia’s side untouched as if she never lay there. This strikes me as odd because I distinctly remember us settling in together. I recall every detail of our night, especially her cries calling my name in ecstasy.

Dragging myself out of bed, I shuffle into the bathroom and begin my morning routine. As I brush my teeth, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and find myself lost in thought, replaying the vivid memories of the night before. I can almost feel her again—the way she arched her back, the intensity of her bite on my neck leaving a mark, her fingers clawing at my back as I moved deeper into her. Her eyes rolled back in pleasure, my name slipping from her lips as we exchanged our whispered declarations of love.

Losing myself in her completely is the most exhilarating experience I’ve ever known. It’s not just about the incredible physical connection we share, though that is undeniably intense. It’s the way her smile lights up my world, the depth of her gaze, the unique scent that lingers on my skin, and the gentle caress of her touch. All these elements combine to create a sense of completeness I never imagined possible.

When we first met, I assumed she would be shy, withdrawn, and perhaps too timid to engage with me. Instead, she surprised me with her boldness. She called me ‘cocky,’ gave me a hard time, and firmly stood her ground. From that moment, she changed my life for the better. Even during the times she seemed indifferent, I was captivated by her spirit. She made me feel truly alive in a way I had never experienced before.

Spitting out the toothpaste, I gurgle some water, rinsing my mouth and spitting it into the sink. As I move to tie up my hair, I secure it with a bobble, pulling it into a bun that exposes my neck.

Curious and slightly apprehensive, I crane my neck to examine it in the mirror, searching for any remnants of the mark from last night. To my surprise, my skin appears clear and unblemished. I inspect both sides, puzzled. She had bitten down with such intensity that I’d hissed from the pain, but rather than soothing, it had stoked a fire within me. Surely there should be some sign left behind?

My confusion deepens as I walk back into the bedroom. There, on the floor, lies the towel I had given her, the same one she’d passed to me afterwards. The towel bears evidence of our encounter, a stark reminder that it was no dream. But where is the mark?

Maybe she didn’t bite as hard as I thought?

Shaking my head, I pick up the towel and toss it into the washing basket. I quickly retrieve some clothes from the drawer, change, and head downstairs. The sight that greets me in the kitchen stops me in my tracks. Meatball, usually a whirlwind of energy, lies motionless on the cold tile floor. His chest rises and falls in a slow, rhythmic motion, but his eyes are closed, an unusual calmness enveloping him.

Concern tightens my chest. Meatball’s usual behavior is far from this lethargy. He’s always alert, always ready to pounce at the sound of footsteps or a crinkle of a food bag.

I walk over to his cupboard and fetch his food, then turn to see him stirring, his eyes opening slightly as if he’s aware of my presence. I place the food down but as soon as I touch him, he meows, a sound laced with discomfort.

Something is terribly wrong.

Without hesitation, I dash out of the kitchen, grabbing his cat basket and a blanket from under the stairs. Rushing back, I gently lift him into the basket, his body feeling alarmingly frail and limp. He’s barely more than skin and bones.

I pick up the basket, my heart pounding, and rush out the door. After a frantic drive, I pull up to the emergency vet clinic. I barely remember parking as I leap from the car, carefully placing the basket on the passenger seat to keep Meatball secure. I sprint inside, skidding to a stop at the reception desk where a young woman with blonde hair and glasses is absorbed in her work.

“I need your help!” I blurt out, breathless. “My cat, he’s not moving and he’s in pain.”

The receptionist glances up, her face shifting from concentration to concern. Without a word, she stands, swiftly taking the basket from me. “Follow me,” she instructs, her voice urgent.

I trail behind her as she leads me down a narrow hallway to an examination room. Inside, a veterinarian, dressed in a crisp white coat, stands beside a table covered in medical instruments and equipment.

“Please, help him,” I plead, my voice trembling.

The vet gently places Meatball on the table and starts an initial examination, his practiced hands moving with a steady, reassuring precision. I stand to the side, anxiety knotting in my stomach as the vet’s face remains focused and serious.

The room is filled with a tense silence, punctuated only by the soft beeps of the monitoring equipment and the occasional murmurs between the vet and the receptionist. Time seems to stretch infinitely as I watch, my mind racing with worry.

After what feels like an eternity, the vet looks up. “We’re going to need to run some tests,” she says, her tone a mix of professionalism and compassion. “It’s not clear yet what’s wrong, but we’ll do everything we can.”

I nod, feeling a mixture of relief and continued anxiety. “Thank you,” I manage to say, though my voice is barely above a whisper.

As the vet and her team work on Meatball, I sit in the waiting area, my thoughts consumed by worry for my beloved pet. Each minute stretches on, filled with the hopeful wish that he will be okay and the nagging fear of the unknown.

And so, I wait, the echoes of his painful meows and the weight of the past night’s intensity merging into a singular, anxious moment of hope and dread.

The minutes crawl by as I sit in the sterile waiting area, my fingers twisting anxiously around the edges of the chair. Every now and then, I glance at the clock on the wall, each tick a painful reminder of the time slipping by without news. The sound of footsteps, the hum of the air conditioning, and the distant murmur of voices do little to distract me from the gnawing worry in my chest.

Finally, the door to the examination room opens, and the vet walks out, her face still serious but softened by a hint of sympathy. She approaches me, and I stand, my heart racing as I prepare for her to speak.

“We’ve completed the initial tests,” she begins, her voice calm yet firm. “It looks like Meatball is suffering from a condition we’re still diagnosing. His symptoms suggest that he might be dealing with something quite severe, possibly an infection or a metabolic issue. We’ve taken some blood samples and will need to run further tests to get a definitive diagnosis.”

I feel my knees weaken at the news, and I struggle to maintain composure. “Is he going to be okay?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper, betraying the fear I feel.

The vet’s eyes meet mine, her expression compassionate. “It’s too early to say for sure. Right now, we’re focusing on stabilizing him and managing his pain. Once we have the results of the additional tests, we’ll be able to provide a clearer picture and discuss treatment options.”

I nod, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. “Thank you. Please, do whatever you can for him.”

The vet gives me a reassuring nod. “Of course. We’ll keep you updated as soon as we have more information.”

With that, she turns and heads back to the examination room, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I sit back down, trying to steady my breathing. My mind replays images of Meatball’s usually playful, energetic self, now so vulnerable and still.

After a while, the receptionist approaches me with a sympathetic smile. “Would you like some coffee or something to eat while you wait? It might be a while before we have the results.”

I manage a weak smile in return, shaking my head. “No, thank you. I just need to stay here.”

She nods and returns to her desk, giving me space to process the news. I try to distract myself by checking my phone, but the words and images blur together, offering little comfort.

The door to the waiting area opens again, and a family enters with their own pet, a small dog looking as anxious as I feel. I offer them a tired smile, but it feels hollow. They take a seat a few chairs away, and I wonder how many others are here waiting for news about their beloved animals.

Finally, after what feels like hours, the vet reappears. Her face is serious but kind. “We’ve received the results of the blood tests,” she says. “It looks like Meatball has a severe infection, likely caused by something he ingested or came into contact with. We’re starting him on antibiotics and other medications to address the infection and support his recovery.”

Relief and exhaustion wash over me, but I can’t help but feel overwhelmed. “Will he recover?” I ask, my voice trembling.

The vet nods. “We’re hopeful. His condition is serious, but with the right treatment, we believe he has a good chance of pulling through. We’ll need to monitor him closely and adjust his treatment as needed.”

I exhale slowly, feeling a mix of hope and anxiety. “Thank you for everything.”

The vet gives me a reassuring smile. “I’ll keep you updated on his progress. For now, you should get some rest and check in later. He’s in good hands.”

I nod gratefully, feeling a glimmer of hope as I leave the clinic. The weight of the day’s events feels lighter, though the worry lingers. I make my way back to the car, feeling the cool night air against my face. I know there will be many more visits and updates to come, but for now, Meatball is receiving the care he needs. As I drive home, I hold onto the hope that soon I’ll have my vibrant, playful companion back, healthy and happy once more.