Page 11 of Mafia and Scars

My eyes narrow as she sniffs around, nudging the crisp corner of my comforter out of its spot. I inhale deeply, trying to fight off the anxiety that bubbles up inside me. I hate my things being messed up.

She looks at me over her shoulder and meows as she sits on top of the comforter.

My brow arches as she kneads the soft bedding before nestling herself into it.

“Comfortable?” I grit out.

I get a soft purr in response. Her fluffy head tilts as her huge green eyes blink at me. Then her head tilts the other way as we stare at each other.

A soft snort leaves my nose before I pull the shirt from my body, tossing it into the hamper. Rubbing the hair at the back of my neck, I look at the cat again. Regal. Poised. And for some reason, she reminds me of Queen Victoria. Who said my obsessive knowledge of British history wasn’t going to pay off? Even if it’s just to nickname some cat who won’t be staying here very long. Yeah, I like this name for her, and I’ll call her Queenie for short.

But as regal as she looks, there’s something else there in her eyes...

Loneliness.

I blink, moving next to the bed, unsure if that’s really what I’m seeing.

As I stand there, she nudges her soft nose into my hand.

I jerk back like she’s bitten me.

My hand clenches into a fist, then unclenches again.Dammit.It never changes. Autism means any touch or contact makes me recoil every single time, and I can’t help it. It makes it impossible for me to give or receive what everyone seems to have so natural—relationships. Personal relationships that go beyond a nod or a jerk of my chin. And I know my autism prevents me from ever indulging in some fantasy that I could ever have a real family of my own—that I could ever be with someone who really understands me. Because I could never give a partner or children what they need—love and affection.

Queenie looks like she’s going to touch me again.

“No, no, nuh-uh, you have to stay away from me. Please! I don’t like to be touched.”

But she nudges my hand again with a lonely meow.

And I want to reassure her…that she’s not alone anymore. I want to do something for her that I wish I could have for myself.Comfort.

She brushes up against my hand again.

Slowly and reluctantly, my hand traces over her head and down her back. I want to comfort her, to give this cat something to lean into, something soft and tender. Something I don’t even think I’m capable of. And yet here I am trying. Trying to do the impossible.

Her purrs fill the space, and I close my eyes.

One stroke. Then another.

I squeeze my eyes shut and wince as I feel her soft fur against my skin. But instead of feeling panic rush through me, I feel a sense of calm.Something I never feel.

I slowly creak open one eyelid and watch her rub herself against me again.

And I realize that I find it sort of…soothing.

I’m completely stunned. Because ever since I can remember, I hatedbeing touched.

Queenie does it again, and she definitely looks happier now and gives deep and rumbly purrs.

And this time, I find myself thinking it’s a sort of…nice feeling that I’m helping her feel happier.

And I wonder about something. Giving affectionwhen someone else needs it—is that what’s allowing my body to tolerate the cat’s touch?

I look down to see Queenie pushing the top of her head beneath my hand. My hand stays there as she nudges me again, as if she does it enough times I’ll get the memo. “Okay, don’t think you’re going to get on my good side by doing that,” I murmur. But I find myself giving the smallest smile at the same time. I perch on the edge of my bed as Queenie sits beside me, her movements careful as if she knows she needs to take things slow with me. “Alright, you can stay longer than one night.”

Meowing at me once more, I take it that we’ve come to some agreement.

After a few more moments, I stand from the bed as she curls again into the comforter, nestling down and making herself at home.