I had never met anyone who hadn't been subject to endure the company of a feline before. The company of said animals was different from anything else, really. Their vocalizations, their movements... You could constantly feel like you were meant to serve them, even if only in their own minds. But somehow, this conception is offered to you and you take it like the good little human servant they assume you to be. I had always had cats around. From the days of scavenging for food in the back alleys of a marketplace, to the actual shack of a home I grew up in, to finding creatures to bring home to my father's farm in Georgia, and to the moment I had found my current resident feline sitting atop my truck as if it were his chariot to his kingdom. He had jumped into the truck through the passenger side window, accepting the seat as if it had been vacated for him before curling up into the little ball of black fur he often embodied. Church had become a permanent fixture in my life, ever since that fateful day where he had acquired me as his human. In my experience, that is how it always was. The feline chooses it's human, much like Tobias had done when he slunk into the shop I worked in, and took up residence on one of the counters. Much to my chagrin, or my delight, said feline had adopted me and ... proved my theory true.

How the hell had she never seen a cat? "That could be for the better. They're needy, pesky balls of fur." Totally true, totally not true. My affection for the animals would be obvious to her, even if only because my eyes were just a slight bit brighter.

The brightness evaporates rather quickly, though, as the topic of conversation fades from furry creatures to things that go bump in the night. Whether they were real monsters or the kind of monsters that creep out of your head, unbidden and unwelcome, I wouldn't have known the difference. Both embodied a physical disturbance that left you changed, and unable to conform to a previous way of life. The monsters scarred you, physically and mentally, providing you with no ample escape from a nightmare that you might otherwise have evaded with the help and support of another, but who would dare venture into such a nightmare with you? I had found it was only the very light, nearly nonexistent hands of my brother and sister that allowed me to extract myself from a certain level of hell that developed in these nightmares.

Alexis' expression is a gentle reminder that she, too, has inner scars that remained unhealed. My words of sympathy, understanding â€" they clearly weren't lost on her, but the negative lines of her face allowed me to see that she didn't think it were possible that I could be victim to nightmares and monsters that might plague her, too. Did I really fight back? Was I really stronger? The exterior, my visible, regular behaviors might allow someone to feel that my strength was emotional and expressive, actualized in an ability to project violence and protection of others. In all reality, I just... couldn't see another young woman fall prey and become victimized in a way that I could prevent sheerly from my presence. The enjoyment of brutality, on the other hand; taking pleasure in violence and the loss of life from another at my own hands had always given me a dominance. A hand of God. When I was most powerless, weak at the failures I believed I had accomplished, the lives of others were mine for the taking â€" a judgment I would never admit to being proud of.

"I don't know if there is real strength in the fight, Alexis. Sometimes I think what I do is revenge, not a display of good natured strength."

Introspective words, but they held so much truth. A truth I hadn't bothered to elaborate on to anyone.