It was November the 15th. I remember it clearly. My mom had screamed at me, because i woke her up – I had a really bad ache in my chest that night and was even crying.
Without a word i went back to my room – and to my misfortune, that night it was to much. With the sharp knife in one hand, tears in my eyes, a bottle full of wine and painkillers on the table – probably mixed with some antidepressants – i sat on my bed. I was ready to leave – and ready to make the first cut. If my cat hadn’t meowed at the red – white liquid dropping to the floor – being made of my blood that was dripping down my left arm and tears – and hadn’t she caught my attention making me look at her. I think that would have been the night. I hated myself so much for not closing the door correctly allowing her to get in – allowing her to see it. A part of me just hated myself, for allowing her to safe me – for making me want to live again – even for a brief moment.
And that night i asked myself, laying in bed at 3 am with my cat in the bandaged left arm, how many pets must have saved people.