I held her limp form in my arms. Eighteen years, three houses, and the many hundreds of hours she spent with me, all leading to this moment. Blackie's death.

I could still remember bringing her home for the very first time: Bridget drove the car while I held the box that contained the two kittens. Both were black, with an equal small splash of white on their chests, but their names were produced from the fur that came out of their ears. Blackears, or Blackie, and White-ears, or Whitey. Having grown up with as many kittens as siblings I knew how to care well for both pets, and within a year Bridget and I were owners of fairly polite, albeit sometimes willingly naughty, cute, and cuddly kitten-cats.

Then, Bridget became pregnant. We were so excited to have our first child, and so was Blackie. Whitey took no notice of her mumma's expanding belly, but Blackie was incredibly concerned. Often I would come home from work to the sight of Bridget resting in our rocking chair with Blackie kneading her stomach ever so gently. Sometimes the cat would snuggle up next to the human and lean her head against the belly. The first time she felt a kick she was super worried, and started meowing in Bridget's face: the poor thing was so concerned for her mumma, and it was very cute to see. The first day after Bridget delivered our child I snuck Blackie into the hospital to see him. Her reaction was priceless. I set her down on the bed, and she walked ever so slowly towards the sleeping child, never taking her eyes off him. She sniffed him all over for five minutes, and then she started wailing at Bridget and I, trying to convince us to give her the baby! She even tried pushing herself between Bridget and the baby, so she could cuddle up close to him.

Once home, Blackie was for a time our new baby's, George's, closest companion. When George was around eight months old, Blackie herself became pregnant, and within three months gave birth to three kittens. She was a good but strict mother, and her three little balls of fur were eventually given away, and Blackie was spayed, because both Whitey and Bridget were also now pregnant, and my modest wage couldn't afford more babies. I hated to do that, as kittens were a part of my childhood; but I was an adult now, and children were the new kittens. Whitey gave birth to four babies of her own, but turned out to be a shoddy mother: Blackie even took better care of them than she did. Once they were given away Whitey was spayed, and shortly after we lost her for three days. I found her body in the ditch on the third day, hit dead by a car, and buried her in the backyard.

After the spaying, Blackie was different. She was more cranky, more naughty, more difficult to handle for Bridget. But the cat was still the same sweet ball of benevolence to our children, with our little girl Amelia joining the party. Throughout the next several years, Blackie was incredible with the children, and she never said no to a cuddle from me. Sometimes when she was feeling extra naughty, she would jump up on mine or one of the kid's shoulders while we were eating, trying to steal our food. She was technically a small cat, and she never became fat, although sneaking table scraps to her was never an offense: I in fact began that tradition.

When Blackie was seven years old, we all moved house, to be closer to my wife's grandparents. Blackie was incredibly crabby in the new place, especially since we had recently acquired a new cat, a fluffy grey-and-white female called Princess. Princess was allowed to have loads and loads of kittens over the next few years, and Blackie never liked one of them. As She go older she became picky, and a little bit senile. She sometimes didn't eat her cat food, wanting instead the "people food" that we humans were eating, and her love of hotdogs increased every party. But I eventually was able to work my job from home, and Blackie was very happy about that, for I was the only one who treated her right. The young kids paid 90% of their pet attention to Princess, her kitties, and our new cocker-spaniel, and Bridget never had time for her anymore, what with homeschooling and cooking for six kids. She was cranky and crabby towards everyone else, but with me she was as sweet and cuddly as the first day I held her. Her days now mostly consisted of breakfast in the morning, going outside to go to the toilet in the grass and wash herself a bit, then begging to be let inside and sit on my lap until dinner. Some nights I even snuck her in bed between Bridget and I: the wife didn't approve, but Blackie appreciated it very much.

Eventually we moved again, when Blackie was around sixteen and George was just fifteen, and I became a gardener at a tiny university in the suburbs. Blackie loved it there so much. For the next two years, she roamed the university grounds at will. The majority of the students were dog lovers, unfortunately, but Blackie didn't care: so many times I would be walking around doing my job, and I would see the cat stretched out on a blanket in the sun with a student or several. She would even creep into the lecture halls, and the lecturers quickly grew to accept her as part of the audience. It was not uncommon for a student to suddenly cry out in the middle of a lecture because Blackie had dug her claws too deep while kneading, but the lecturers didn't mind too much as most of them had cats of their own. One of the students who had graduated only a week ago had broken down crying when he had to say goodbye to Blackie.

That's what I felt like now. Crying. She was still breathing, but barely. Old age had been cruel to her: she had not been able to jump for a year, and these past few months it had been difficult for her to walk. And now, she was dying. There was nothing the vets could do: death is natural, and it had finally caught up with my old friend. The children had all said their goodbyes and left us together, Blackie and I. Together till the end. The poor thing was licking my hair now, a sign of ownership for a cat: I nudged her and patted her gently.

"You're a good girl, Blackie. You always have been. My favourite cat in the world. You have been a sister to my kids, and a wonderful, pretty, amusing, funny, and crabby seventh and first child to me. I can't thank you enough. You have to go now, but death is not parting us: I will always be here with you: I'll remember you forever. You'll always be my cat."

Somewhere through the eulogy she had gone still, and I dissolved into tears.

She stood there, above his wounded body, as she raised her ax to deliver the killing blow.

Coughing and spitting blood he rhasped "death cannot part us, I'll always be with you. Even if you kill me now, I'll be waiting for you on the other side." His grin was pained but smug.

"Then I swear revenge on you in every life to come. You've rightfully earned this fate." Hot tears of rage ran down her face, twisted with anger, as she swung the ax down on his skull.

He was finally gone. But she was determined to make sure his pain hadn't ended yet.

And he was right. His death did not stop what he'd done from haunting her. but still, for the moment after she'd killed him, everything was perfect.

Tick...Tick...Tick

Every year, once a year, he comes back. He sits across from me in that same shiny leather chair with one leg atop of the other and a gastly smirk on his crooked face. And every year, once a year, I sit with his old pipe in my hand that i used to gouge his eye out that night and smoke from it while staring him down.

"Still as vile as ever i see." He said picking up his whiskey glass and pouring himself another drink.

"If i'm so vile why do you return to me every year?" I ask a small smile gracing my lips.

"Once a year doll, and to remind you of what you did to your dear.old.husband." He spat the last words out of his mouth as if they left venom on his tongue.

"Husband? You mean ex husband, till death do we part but it seems one of us got there before the oth-" Before the final word could finish leaving my mouth he grabbed me by my arm and pulled me close staring into my eyes with his one.

"Death...is not parting us doll, I will always be here with you. Every year, Once a year and you WILL remember me." He stated his grip on my arm tightened around me and no matter how hard I tried i couldn't hide the giant smirk that was crawling across my face. As soon as he noticed i leaned in and whispered-

"Yes dear, YOU will always be here. I'm selling the house but keeping the pipe so you can beat up on some other poor bastards wife," and pushed him back. He lost his footing and fell back in his chair looking up at me eye filled with mallice however, shrinking backwards in his chair as i walked towards him and cupped his face.

"it's time for you to go, doll" I said with a condescending smirk as the clock struck 12 and the bell in the grand clock my late husband loved so much rung out filling the house with beautiful vibrations. I closed my eyes letting the sound embrace me and the sound of what may have been a scream declaring vengance barely reached my ears before it was gone. And I satisfied with my work picked up the unfinshed glass of whiskey and sat in front of my fireplace enjoying a quiet night with my favorite pipe.

on the other side

of my bedroom wall

there lives a mouse

who loves to crawl

he scritches and scratches

when i'm trying to sleep

but stays silent as bones

when i'm trying to weep.

he gives me no comfort,

he brings me no joy

but he's always been here

my little rodent boy.

and one day as my body expires

i'm sure i'll hear him coming

his whiskers like wires.

"death is not parting us"

he'll say with a grin

"i will always be here with you,

burrowed under your skin."

and he keeps scritching and scratching,

gnawing at my bones

and i still can't go

to sleep.

She was coming back home after school, when she saw her mother leaving. She went inside the house, sat down to her bedroom while she was feeling like something happened, something bad. Couple of hours the phone rang and her father picked it up and that's when she heard the words that she wasn't expected ever to heart, "your grandpa died".

After her father left to be with her mother she started to cry out loud for losing the only person she was loving so much since she was kid. At the funeral she was not good, her eyes were red but she tried her best to make it through the day and the time for the final goodbye came.

She was crying while she was stood there with finding it hard to speak, to say something last to the person she thought she had more time to share.

- I know I supposed to have more time with you, but we never get what we want in this life. I never said how much I love you and how important you were to me, and for that I'm sorry it took me forever. You were making sure that I was having a good time a little girl when I was coming every summer and you were laughing with my crazy cold jokes and that. However you gave me something I worth to live and take care of! You gave me your color eyes. I am lucky to have the same color eyes as you had because now when I will look at the mirror I will always be with you or feel you. I will remember you and all of our time together just by looking at the mirror. Death is not parting us! You will be here with me forever and I will be with you!

With that been said, she threw a rose to his grave, she blew a kiss and then she left.