Page 23 of Faking the Goal

Oh my God.

What if I wasn't imagining it?

What if whoever was behind me saw me turn around and ducked into the grass before I could see them?

Every reasonable instinct in my body screams at me to keep walking.

Better yet, run.

Instead, I fucking stand there.

Because apparently when confronted with possible murder, my survival instincts have decided we're going with wait around and investigate.

Stupid.

Stupid, stupid, fucking—

The grass jerks violently.

Something white shoots out.

I scream and stumble backward so fast I nearly land on my ass.

Two bright eyes stare back at me.

A small white cat stands at the edge of the sidewalk.

For anyone else, this would probably be the part where they laugh, clutch their chest, and thank God it wasn't some psycho hiding in the grass.

My body does the exact opposite.

Every drop of blood in me turns to ice.

"No."

The word comes out before I even know I'm saying it.

The cat doesn't do anything. It just stands there, tail curling slowly behind it as it watches me.

Harmless.

It's a fucking cat.

I know it's harmless.

But my body doesn't seem to give a shit what I know.

My lungs lock. My hands start shaking. A sick wave of panic crashes through me so suddenly and violently that for one disorienting second, I don't even feel like I'm standing on the sidewalk anymore.

There's something about its eyes.

Something about the white fur.

I don't know.

I never fucking know.

I've been terrified of cats for as long as I can remember, and I've never been able to explain why. No childhood attack I remember. No scar from getting mauled. No dramatic story about falling into a box of feral kittens when I was five.