Fanta

by Edianne Son C. Alquino

I have never have, nor ever been appeased, of what I am about to pen.
Throughout my childhood I’ve never found any peace, nor love, except for
humans, specifically the eternal grace and fondness of my family. For one which,
to whom I love the most, my mother.

My mother, blessed with a compassionate heart, shared her empathy with

all living creatures. I vividly recall a moment from my childhood when I teetered
on the brink of committing a grievous act. I stumbled upon a fallen bird's nestling
beneath a tree in our backyard. It was she who halted my ill-intentions, teaching
me that, akin to human connections, animals too love. This is the very thing I
should’ve remembered, after a relentless source of guilt and lament throughout
my days.

Animals had never held a special place in my heart. My parents welcomed

dogs, cats, and even raised a brood of chickens, all unwittingly leading me to
confront the source of my eventual anguish.

Once, my father bestowed upon me a small, brown kitten. Its fur

resembled wispy clouds, adorned with long whiskers and sharp claws.
Predominantly brown, with a hint of orange and a generous white patch from
neck to belly, the creature's allure captivated me. I named him "Fanta," a name
derived from a memory of our visit to a place called "Fanta Sea" during a time of
pestilence, when a pandemic plagued the world.

Upon returning home, I offered him our leftovers. He appeared starved, a

victim of previous neglect. Over time, we forged a bond, and my attachment
deepened.

I provided him with food, day by day, and he became my constant

companion, especially in my solitary moments. His dark and occasionally
mischievous eyes bore into me, though I was well aware of his indifference. I,
however, convinced myself of his love, and thus, my attachment intensified.

Unlike most felines, Fanta preferred the confines of our home. This
initially pleased me, but my joy would turn to resentment when I discovered my
allergy to his kind.

I began to distance myself, reserving affection for meal times. I never

bathed him, for he would flee at the sight of a water-filled bucket. Yet, despite the
complications, I still cherished him above all else, even considering him a
companion during the lonely days of the pandemic.
 My affection waned when my father took an active role in Fanta's life. The
man who had given me the cat believed he held ownership over it. While sober,
my father would indulge in playful antics with Fanta, but the demon of alcohol
transformed him into a tormentor, hurling brooms and insults at the poor
creature.

One fateful evening, during a fraught family dinner, my father's anger

boiled over as he spotted Fanta. He berated me for continuing to care for the
feline. I received such insulting words from the drunk.

That meal would forever be etched in my memory as the darkest family

gathering, leaving me consumed by guilt and profound regret. In the midst of my
father's tirade, I lost myself momentarily. For reasons I wish not to comprehend,
I seized Fanta by the neck and offered him to my father's wrath. I never
comprehended what I did, it was either an act of pride, and maybe, lost loyalty, it
is ineffable.

My father, consumed by his rage, ordered my mother to fetch a bag,

intending to discard Fanta in a river. To my dismay, my mother, in fierce
opposition, was pushed aside, and my father went outside. Fueled by a volatile
mix of neglect and fury, he got a knife and gave Fanta to a cruel demise.

I stood there, paralyzed, as my father, the one who had gifted me the cat,
took him away. Tears welled up, and my father's gaze met mine before shifting
ominously toward my mother. Panic overtook me, and I fled, with death's
shadow in pursuit. It was the specter of death indeed when my father ruthlessly
stabbed my mother, leaving her behind as he turned his murderous intent
toward his own flesh and blood this time.