Just some writing that I've been doing. This is based on the true story of part of my life. However, I've colored it a bit for dramatic purposes. But, yes, there was a cat named "Dustball". If anyone wants, there is a part two that I've finished. Just let me know and I'll add it to this thread.


The sun hung heavy in the summer sky, its heat pressing down on the cracked asphalt of the trailer park. The young girl burst through the flimsy screen door, her mother’s voice chasing her, angry, sharp, and slurred into incoherence. Words twisted into nonsense as they echoed down the lane, but the meaning cut deep all the same. The girl’s bare feet slapped the hot ground, raising tiny puffs of dust as she ran, her breath hitching in ragged bursts. She didn’t know where she was going, only that she needed to get away from the shouting, the smell of beer, and the feeling that she was nothing more than an inconvenience.

When she slowed, her chest aching, she found herself near the end of the row of trailers where the air was still and the world seemed to pause. A small gray cat lay curled in the shade by a neighbor’s steps, its sides rising and falling with easy sleep. The girl crouched down, her dirty jumper sticking to her sweaty skin, and whispered softly. Her voice cracked from crying. The cat opened one green eye, considered her for a moment, and then darted away, tail flicking. The rejection stung like a familiar echo. Everything she reached for seemed to run.

She sank down on the warm concrete steps where the cat had been, drawing her knees close, her face buried against them. The tears came quietly at first, then all at once. She didn’t understand why her mother’s words had to hurt so badly, or why love, when she needed it most, always seemed to vanish. The heat of the step seeped through her thin jumper, and the sound of cicadas filled the still air. For a moment, the whole world seemed to watch her break.

Then she felt a small, hesitant brush against her ankle. The cat had returned, moving with slow, deliberate steps, its tail twitching. It meowed softly, a sound that seemed to ask permission, then leapt lightly into her lap. She froze, afraid to breathe, as it circled once before settling, purring deep and steady. The vibration ran through her hands where they rested on its fur. The sound didn’t fix the hurt, but it filled the silence that had always followed her mother’s rage.

As the cat’s warmth spread across her lap, new tears slipped down her cheeks, not of sorrow alone, but of something gentler, quieter. She felt seen, even if only by this small creature who had chosen to come back. The clouds drifted lazily overhead, and the air shimmered with heat. Somewhere far off, her mother’s voice faded into nothing. The girl sat there, barefoot and unwashed, holding the cat close, and for the first time that day, she felt like she might be worth coming back to.

The midday sun continued to beat down mercilessly on the cracked asphalt of the trailer park, baking the dirt until it lifted in choking clouds with every passing car. Rusting corrugated metal, sun-bleached plastic toys, and a scattering of empty beer cans littered the narrow space between the trailers. The seven-year-old girl sat hunched on the peeling, splintered wooden steps of the neighbor's unit, her bare legs sticking uncomfortably to the worn paint. The air was thick, heavy, and motionless, yet she revelled in the saving grace of someone nestled in her lap: a vast cloud of soft, gray fur, a small, quiet world of love unto itself.

Her face was smeared with dust and dried tear tracks, her lower lip still trembling slightly from the sorrow that had driven her here. She instinctively buried her chin into the dense, luxurious fluff of the cat, breathing in the scent of dust and sunshine that clung to its coat. The animal, oblivious to the stifling heat that oppressed everything else, was a comforting furnace, a creature of pure, uncomplicated softness. Its rhythmic, rumbling purr vibrated deeply through her diaphragm, a steady, mechanical sound of peace that anchored her in the chaos of the afternoon.

A sharp click from the flimsy aluminum screen door startled her, and the cat’s purr stuttered briefly. An instant later, the main door swung inward with a rattling sigh. Standing silhouetted against the trailer's dark interior was an older gentleman with a face like weathered leather and spectacles perched low on his nose. The moment the gap opened, a startling blast of air, shockingly frigid and smelling faintly of mothballs and canned chili, surged out, a tangible, welcome shock against the humid air.

The girl gasped, clutching the cat tighter, not out of fear of the man, but from the sudden, jarring contrast of temperatures. Before she could register the man’s face, the gray cat realized its opportunity. With a graceful, muscle-less surge, it launched itself from her lap, a fleeting, shimmering streak of fur, and disappeared into the blessed, icy gloom inside. The abrupt disappearance of the weight and the warmth left her hands cold and empty, and she quickly scrambled to stand, feeling exposed and self-conscious about her wet underwear and dusty cheeks.

The gentleman stepped out onto the threshold, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he looked down at her. He saw the faint, tell-tale sheen of fresh tears clinging to her lashes and gestured with a gentle hand toward the dimness of the air-conditioned living room. “Dustball,” he commented softly, referring to the cat, "is inviting you inside where it’s cool. Looks like you could use a break from that sun. Would you like to come in and sit with Mr. Dustball for a spell?”

The gentleman waited patiently, and after a moment of consideration, the girl nodded slowly. She stepped over the threshold, and the immediate sensory relief was staggering. The air-conditioned chill hit her skin like a physical shock, and she sighed, shedding the tension of the hot afternoon. He led her to a worn, but comfortable, floral-patterned sofa that sagged slightly in the middle. The girl sat down daintily on the very edge, her eyes wide as she relished the frigid blast of the air conditioning unit humming in the nearby window.

The man settled into a matching armchair. "So, you met Dustball," he said, offering a small, kind smile. "I'm Gimwinkle."

The girl felt the need to respond to the formality. "I'm Angelique."

His eyebrows went up slightly. "Angelique. Are you French?" The girl shook her head. "No. I'm just Angelique."

"I meant are you from Quebec because your name sounds French," he clarified gently.

Her small voice was clear as she replied, "No, I'm from this trailer park."

Just then, Dustball, who had been curled up under the armchair, stretched, blinked, and executed a small, deliberate leap, landing squarely in her lap. As the steady, mechanical purr began again, the girl sank back into the soft cushions, and the man picked up a remote. Without another word, they turned their attention to the comforting, brightly colored distraction of afternoon cartoons flickering on the television screen.

The trailer park sat quiet under the sagging weight of late afternoon heat. Dust shimmered above the rutted lanes, hanging motionless in the still air. A few dogs barked lazily in the distance, and somewhere, a radio played the tail end of a country song before fading into static.

A man made his way down the main road, his boots kicking up thin puffs of dust that clung to his jeans. The trailers around him leaned tiredly on their cinderblock foundations—sun-faded aluminum walls patched with plywood, screen doors hanging crooked, and curtains yellowed from years of cigarette smoke. He stopped at the last trailer near the edge of the lots, the one with a missing front step where a sun-bleached kitchen chair had been dragged into place as a makeshift stoop.

He climbed onto it and knocked. The hollow sound carried through the thin metal walls.

A moment later, the door cracked open. The woman who appeared in the frame blinked at him through smeared mascara, one hand gripping the doorframe to steady herself. The smell of beer and stale sweat drifted out with the wave of heat from inside. She wore a wrinkled tank top that might once have been white and shorts that hung loose on her hips. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her voice came out thick and slurred.

“What d’you want?” she snapped, though her words slurred together.

“Hi,” he said, tipping his head slightly, “I’m looking for the mother of a little girl named Angelique.”

Her face twisted, part sneer, part squint. “Her? Yeah, I’m her mother. What’d she do now? If she’s in trouble, you can keep her. I ain’t responsible for whatever that little brat’s done. I’m busy.”

“Busy?” he echoed, glancing past her into the dim interior. The air inside looked heavy with cigarette smoke and cluttered shadows.

“Yeah, busy,” she shot back, though she was swaying on her feet. “Now, if you don’t mind…” She paused, squinting harder at him. “You gotta smoke?”

He shook his head. “No, ma’am. I don’t smoke.”

She sighed dramatically, as though deeply inconvenienced. “Figures.”

“I just wanted to let you know,” he said, his tone even and patient, “that Angelique wandered over to my place earlier. She fell asleep on my sofa with my cat. I can wake her and bring her home now if you’d like… or I can let her rest a bit longer.”

The woman peered at him again, trying to bring his face into focus. “Wait. You that new guy? The one with the fancy car that moved in up by the entrance?”

“I live on Olive Street,” he said carefully. “And the car’s nothing special.”

“Huh.” She blinked slowly, the recognition half forming. Then she shrugged, rubbing at her temple. “Well, if you don’t mind, the kid can stay where she is till she wakes up. Don’t wake her on my account. But don’t think I’m payin’ you any babysittin’ money or nothin’.”

He let out a quiet laugh. “Wouldn’t dream of it, ma’am.”

She gave a vague wave of dismissal and turned back inside, muttering something about finding another beer. The screen door creaked and slammed behind her, leaving him standing there in the heavy silence that followed.

For a moment, he stayed where he was, staring at the rusted door and the sagging chair beneath his feet. The hot wind stirred a strand of torn curtain through a broken window, and the smell of old grease and dust lingered in the air. Then, with a slow exhale, he stepped down and turned toward the road.

As he walked back toward Olive Street, the evening sun dipped low behind the tree line, painting the trailers in a red-gold haze. A crow called somewhere in the distance. He thought about the small girl curled on his couch, her tangled hair spread across the cat’s fur, and he knew, somehow, that this wasn’t going to be the last time she found her way to his door.