It was all hustle-and-bustle outside, today.

Everyone working.

Everyone shopping.

Everyone going.

The sound of too many cars on the salted, chilly streets, with all those drivers driving so crazily. Engines sputtering. And a few honking horns, muted by the bland, beige walls of this room. The closed (did they even have the capacity to open) windows letting in December-born, blind-broken light. And those inspirational posters hanging in frames, too, were here. The ones that made you wanna roll your eyes. The ones that were too easy. All ‘fluff' and no substance. And an old-time scale, to weigh yourself on, sat in the corner over there.

"It hurts." A swallow. Slitted, golden eyes looking down. Her claws digging into the table-cushion. Into the crinkly, white paper, too, that was spread across the length of the tabletop, which she sat on. Her silky tail sitting limp behind her. Her whiskers still. As were her angular ears.

"Milty ... "

"It hurts ALL the time," she continued, insisting. Finally looking up. Her tone tinged with quiet, rising desperation. Never loud. Never brash, her voice. (Well, not anymore, anyway.) No, it was soft, almost spayed, really, in how scaled back it was of passion. And though she had too much predatory pride to outright panic, she just couldn't, oh, couldn't, keep the helplessness out of her body language. The weakness. And she was ashamed of it. Ashamed of herself, really, is what it came down to. Is what it came down to. And it caused her eyes, once more, to look downward in resignation. Glancing to her bare, hanging foot-paws (which didn't reach the carpet). It was cold enough to wear shoes today, but she hadn't. She wanted to be a little bit uncomfortable. "It hurts even in my sleep," she whispered. Her sleep. If you could call it sleep. It was more like sleeplessness.

"Milty," the doctor, a skunk, repeated, in a soothing, familiar tone (having said all this before), trying not to come off as patronizing. Trying not to sound pretentious. "Milty, it's been a year. A year," he repeated, trailing. Letting that point hang in the air. Letting it sink in. "Now, I've run every residual scan and test, and ... I just don't see any problems. You should be fine. You ARE fine," he assured, gesturing with his paws, and then smoothing his loose, white lab coat, which had a few pens in it (some without caps), and a cherry lollipop (for himself, actually). "You should be happy." His luxurious, black-furred, white-striped tail hung behind him, like a magazine-order pillow for a fancy couch.

"No. No," she whispered. Again, with that quietness. Again, with that un-feline way. She was so meek, now. So withdrawn. Like a damn rodent. The thought made her shiver. Made her nauseous. But she couldn't help it, could she, after what she'd been through? To be feeling like this? To be reeling like this?

"If you want my advice ... "

" ... it still hurts," she repeated, speaking over him. "I need more pills," she said simply. As if that were the ultimate answer to everything. And she swallowed, licking her dry lips with her scratchy, tabby-cat tongue. Her fur indicative of a short-haired breed, and colored prettily. Orange-striped, with whorls of melon, tangerine, butter. She was quite attractive, really. But single, nonetheless. "I need more pills."

"You don't ... "

" ... need more pills. I do. Yes, I do." Her words coming fast, now. Feverishly. Her breasts rose and fell beneath her attire. Her pulse working itself up, up. And up a bit more.

"You do NOT," the skunk stressed, "need more pills. You think you do, but you don't. This is all ... "

" ... so, I'm insane?"

" ... in your head." A breath. "I didn't say that. Calm down. Please ... " The skunk was a good twenty years older than she was. Maybe even in his early fifties. It was hard to tell, though. His fur hadn't started greying yet. It still had its sharp, black-and-white blanketing. But, then, he could be dying it. Some old furs (the ones with money) dyed their pelts. But you could usually tell when they did.

Milty shut her eyes. Breathed, breathed. Trying to stay, as instructed, calm.

"I'm really encouraged by your physical progress," the doctor said, clearing his throat. Scratching behind his own angular ear. "You really ARE better." He put his paws down. And reached for a pen. And fiddled with it.

"I don't feel it," she whispered.

"Well, that's the thing: your pain is emotional, now. That's what's left. You have some, uh, pretty heavy ... emotional scars, I think. I mean, I think that's obvious, don't you?" His brown eyes widened. He looked to her. "Don't you think?"

The tabby-cat swallowed.

"You stopped going to the therapist ... "

No answer.

The skunk, sitting in a chair against the wall, looking to her (still sitting on the edge of the patient's table, fully dressed), waited. "Milty?" He blinked a few times, and then leaned back. His muzzle did a bit of a twitch. And then he leaned forward. As if beginning to tire, now, of all this.

"I didn't like him."

"You didn't like him?" he repeated. "The therapist?"

"He didn't know what he was talking about," she dismissed. "It was all psycho-babble." A pause. "And he was prey."

"Well, prey make good therapists, believe it or not," the skunk said quietly, trying not to be offended. "Prey can DO things, you know. Anyway, they're very ... vulnerable, openly-emotional types. I think he knows what he's talking about. You should keep going ... "

"He's a squirrel."

"And?"

"He's prey," Milty repeated. A shake of the head. "I won't tell him things." A hesitation. "I don't trust him."

A sigh. "I know him, personally. He's a good fur ... "

"Well, you're prey, too. Of course you'd say that. You all stick together," she babbled, "like you do ... "

"Us skunks aren't typical prey."

"You're hardly predators, though. Atypical prey ... is still prey." She met his eyes, unblinking. Suddenly showing a fierceness. Was it distrust? Instinctual superiority?

"I can't argue with that," the doctor whispered diplomatically. And he paused, and swallowed, and then sat up straighter in his chair. Refusing to be baited by her. And he took a deep, deep breath. "Well, alright ... uh ... well, there's still the option of getting you a Christian therapist, which I believe would help you immensely. I think you need to get involved with a church ... "

"I don't need one. A church, or a Christian therapist ... that's not what I need."

"I think you do. You do have a soul, you know. It's withering ... "

"I don't," she repeated, shaking her head stubbornly, "need those things. I don't need," she said, "your suggestions."

"Then why are you here?" was his immediate response.

No answer.

The doctor just sighed (for what felt like the hundredth time). "Alright, then."

"I just need more pills," Milty prattled on. "I just need you to renew my prescription ... "

"Milty, please, listen to me: I am NOT going to do that. You don't NEED more pills. You need EMOTIONAL help. And, anyway, your insurance won't cover it. You don't have the money. I mean, in all seriousness, you shouldn't even be here, really, in this room right now. Cause, frankly, as you just admitted, you're wasting your time ... and mine. A waste," he emphasized, "of time."

She narrowed her eyes. Breathed, breathed.

"Look, I've known your parents for years. I helped deliver you, remember, when you were born? Your mother tell you that?"

"Of course," was the whisper. "That's ... that's why I made you my doctor," she admitted sheepishly, as if she were at a disadvantage.

"Alright. So, don't you think you can trust me when I say that ... "

" ... but I should've gotten a feline doctor. Or even a canine. Anyone but you. You won't even help me! Just because you know my parents, that doesn't mean you know ME. Or what's wrong with me. You don't even believe me! It STILL hurts!" She was ranting, now, with no structured flow to her words. She was just speaking to speak. Just venting. Just going off on him. Her voice was raising this time. Louder than she'd been. But it was all hollow fury.

"You're in pain," he said, interrupting her. "That much I DO know. But it's a kind of pain that you're unwilling to deal with."

"I'm not afraid of pain," she said, resenting the implication.

"No?"

She glared.

"I think you are," he whispered. "No, scratch that. You're not afraid of the pain. You're afraid of the FEELINGS that it spawns in you. That's the thing with predators, Milty. And don't think I don't know anything about predators. I'm a doctor. I'm well-versed. You're afraid to BE weak ... you were made to be weak," he whispered, "when all of this happened. And you never recovered from that. You never accepted it. The sooner you admit that you're not invincible, that you DO need faith, that you ... "

But she interrupted, slipping off the table, saying, " ... gotta go." A huff. "I gotta go. I have things to do."

"Milty ... "

"Stop it. Just ... just stop it. Don't say my name. Don't look at me. Just ... just ... " She was too flustered to finish. She quivered with contained confusion.

And the doctor opened his muzzle to say something further.

But she was already out the door.



It was twenty minutes later. And she was at the general store. She'd taken the bus. She always, nowadays, had to take the bus. Or walk. She preferred walking. But it depended on the weather. And the distance. But she couldn't be trusted to drive anymore. Her reflexes weren't what they used to be.

She felt, in many ways, gutted. Like half of her former self.

But that was ridiculous, wasn't it?

You're still here. Alive. Healthy, now. Like the doctor said, you're fine. Maybe it IS all in your head. Maybe you just have to let it go.

Let it go, she whispered to herself.

I did.

I did let it go.

She lived in town, though, now, close to her parents. So they could ‘keep an eye' on her. Like she needed babysitting? Like she couldn't take care for herself anymore?

Can you?

I don't need anyone.

You do. You're lonely. You're collapsing into yourself.

They all treat me like a kitten.

They're only worried. You're their only child.

They almost lost you.

Can you blame them for smothering you, now, with attention?

The tabby-cat scoffed, pushing all these thoughts aside. Too many thoughts. Too many things in her head. Pushing all these monologues out of her mind. And, instead, looking around. Browsing. Looking for things to put in her shopping cart. She needed to restock her food stores, and maybe get a few other things. Christmas was coming up, and she didn't really have any decorations, did she, in her little place?

No, they're all at mom and dad's. All the decorations. All the lights. All the old, paw-made ornaments from way-back-when.

Well, go and get them. Use some of theirs.

No, I need some new things.

I don't need charity.

Since when is borrowing Christmas decorations from your parents considered charity?

Well, whatever. Just look around. Look for things. Just remember, you're on a fixed income. That means no splurging!

Alright, alright. Shut up.

Shut up!

So, she pushed her cart around. Browsed. Trying to clamp down on her mind.

Trying.

She got some fish. Some poultry. She eyed some of the fruits and vegetables, but she wasn't too keen on those, really. Aside from some red delicious apples. She liked those. Apples went well with meals, didn't they, at this time of the year? Apples and breads. She got some fresh, hot French bread. Wished they'd make some honey-wheat ones, though, instead of white ones. White bread wasn't as good for you. Didn't they know that? Were they trying to kill her or something?

Cheer up, Milty. Calm down.

Push your cart.

Push.

And, entering another aisle, she found Christmas candies. Candy canes, peppermint patties, green-and-red candy-coated chocolates, and gold and silver things in wrappers. All of them appealing to the eyes. And appealing to the nose, as well. The smell of chocolate was pretty distinct. Even through all that packaging.

Her eyes danced over all the bags. Her striped tail swayed behind her.

And she picked a few out. Some of those ‘chocolate kisses,' and some of those ‘peanut butter cups.' And, for the sake of it, a box of candy canes. Only five dollars, really, for all this candy. Not that expensive, was it?

When it'll all be gone before midnight, it IS expensive.

I'm not gonna eat it all today.

You will. You'll get sad, and you'll eat it all. That's what happens. That's what happened the last time you got candy. Why do you think you weight ten more pounds than you did at this time last year, huh?

Because my body's been weakened, was her response.

That's an excuse. It's been a YEAR.

It still hurts. I can't exercise like I used to.

Keep saying it, Milty. Keep saying it.

Didn't I tell you to shut up?

A toothy scowl, and she shook her head. Physically shook her head, as if trying to scramble her thoughts. Shake them loose. Shake them off.

Alright, leave the candy aisle.

Leave the ‘grocery' part of the store. You got milk, right? Yeah, I got milk? Whole milk, Vitamin D. Orange juice. I got orange juice, too. What else did I get?

She stopped. And counted the things in her cart. Making sure she had everything. It was hard to remember, sometimes, what she needed. And what she was doing. Sometimes, she forgot. Sometimes, she worried that her ‘dulled reflexes' had affected her mind, too.

Sometimes, she wondered if she was insane.

But, no, she had everything.

Everything on her list. The foodstuffs, anyway. She still wanted to look for some other things. She needed some more fur-shampoo, and stuff like that. Some toothpaste.

So, she went and got those. Going from one aisle to another to another, until she passed an aisle with Christmas decorations, and she stopped, pulling her cart back. And pushing it down the aisle.

I needed some Christmas decorations, right?

Yes. You wanted to look at those. But, remember, FIXED income. You don't exactly have a good job right now.

Will you stop reminding me?

Wreathes.

Strings of lights, both colored and white. In counts of twenty-five, fifty, one hundred, two hundred, even. Oh, she loved Christmas lights. They were so pretty, weren't they? And, oh, how they glowed and twinkled in that wintery way. It was kind of romantic, really. All those lights. It was kind of hopeful, wasn't it?

You don't need any lights. You don't even have a tree.

Maybe I want a tree.

You don't have room for a tree.

I want a REAL tree. I'm gonna get a REAL tree.

Whatever.

She picked up a package of lights. And started to put it in her cart, and then hesitated. Feeling, suddenly, horribly sad. She took a breath. And then slowly put the lights back, whispering to herself, "I don't need lights." She cleared her throat and pushed her cart further down the aisle.

A few other furs passed through the aisle. Some of them with children. A femme mouse with two young children. A boy mouse and a girl mouse, maybe about three and five years old, respectively. If Milty had to guess.

The feline met their eyes.

They shied away. The younger mouse sitting in the cart. The older one, the boy, clutching at his mother's legs. Their eyes wide.

Milty busied herself with looking at candles, now. They're little kids. They can't help but stare, she told herself. You're a cat. They're scared of you.

I'm not scary. I'm not ugly. I'm not mean.

Maybe not.

Maybe? Maybe not?

And she gave herself no response, this time. Just kept browsing. Kept looking at the candles. All the wax candles, and even the electric candles. Candles were good, too. Candles gave light, too. But natural light.

Oh, she would like to get some candles.

But supposing you forget they're lit? What if you forget to blow them out before you go to bed? And what if you burn your place down, hmm?

I won't do that.

You forget things, Milty, nowadays. Remember?

I'm not too damaged to have candles. I am getting, she told herself, candles.

Fine.

Fine! She reached for some candles. And put them in her cart. And then paused. Do I have matches? At home? Do I have any? She bit her lip, thinking. And she couldn't, for the life of her, remember. Well, maybe I should buy more matches, just in case I don't have any. But what if I get home and I find out I have five hundred matches, because I've forgotten so many times that I just keep buying more and more?

A sigh.

And she put the candles back.

Dammit.

More furs came down the aisle. Some rabbits.

The tabby-cat busied herself, not making eye contact. Wishing they would hurry up and pass through. And leave her alone.

Leave me alone.

She felt a lump in her throat. A pang. A sharp, fierce stab of loneliness. Of want. Of someone to trust. To be with. To love. To be touched by.

When was the last time she'd had romance?

How many years ago had that been?

Could anyone ever love her now? After all that had happened? Or was she too messed-up?

She shook her head, staying composed. You're a feline, Milty. You don't feel weakness. You aren't weak.

You are. You are very weak.

I don't feel weakness, she told herself. I'm a feline.

And she came to the end of the aisle. And stopped. Eyes scanning.

Nativity scenes.

Her paw slowly reached for one. One of the boxes. And she pulled it back, and eyes wide, eyes watery, she looked. At all those, little figurines. All with their paws pressed flat and pressed together, in that prayer-like way. Their tails held reverently behind them. The shepherds, the kings, and Mary and Joseph, and there was a winged, glittering angel in the set. And then, of course, the baby Jesus.

She'd never had a Nativity set.

She paused.

What do you need one for, huh?

It's what Christmas is about. I'm not a hypocrite, am I? I know what I'm celebrating. I know what this is for.

She looked harder.

At the figures. At the colors. At the expressions. Granted, these weren't the most artistic Nativity figures. Granted, they were from the shelf of a general store, but they stood for something. They meant something.

I can put them in the kitchen. On the Hoosier cabinet.

And she put the set in her cart. And cleared her throat, looking around. And began to head for the check-out aisles.

She bought her stuff.

"Do you need help with the bags?" the bag-boy, a chipmunk, asked.

Milty shook her head. "No, I got it."

"You sure?"

A quiet nod. "Yes." And she pushed her cart away.

When she got outside, she cautiously crossed the parking lot. And sighed, nearing one of the ‘cart corrals.' She'd have to carry all these bags from this point on, though. To get to the bus stop. She couldn't bring the cart with her. She had four bags, though, of stuff. But they weren't that heavy, were they? Surely, she could manage.

She tucked the cart in with the other carts. And lifted her bags out. They were all plastic bags, thankfully. They were easier to get a hold of than those paper bags (which often ripped).

She began to walk across the rest of the parking lot, which was a bit wet. A bit salted (to keep the wetness from turning, overnight, to ice). Her foot-paws did feel chilly. She wished she hadn't been so stubborn this morning, and that she'd worn shoes instead of going without them. But she would live.

But, as she went, she felt the bags begin to slip from her grasp. She tried to strengthen her grip, but she lost one of the bags. The bag with the Nativity set. It hit the asphalt, jostling everything inside. And there was a breaking sound.

The feline froze. Her ears and whiskers perfectly still. Her tail stopping, too.

After a moment, she knelt down, eyes watering, fishing through the plastic bag. No, no, no. Please, no.

And she took out the box with all the figurines.

The angel Gabriel had broken. One of the shepherds, too. And the baby Jesus.

Milty, setting her other bags down, sinking to a crouch, looked at the broken pieces. And was reminded, too forcefully, of the broken pieces of her heart. And her body. And her soul. Her faith. What had happened to her faith?

What have I let myself become?

The watered eyes began to drip with tears. She began to sob. Oblivious, now, to anyone who might see. Not caring.

She cried.

And a singular mouse, passing by, noticed. Paused. His whiskers twitching. Taking pity. Unable to walk by her. It wouldn't be the Christian thing to do, to just pretend she wasn't there. He couldn't just walk by a sobbing fur.

Milty, eyes hurting, breath shaky, didn't notice him standing over her.

"Uh ... ma'am?" the grey-furred mouse asked, in a shy, squeaky voice. He was wearing those ‘for mouses' ear-muffs, which covered the sensitive flesh of his big, dishy ears. He had a hat on, too, and a tail-sock. He was all decked out. Like such a fragile thing. But, then, mouses (and rodents, in general) were delicate, weren't they?

The tabby-cat blinked and looked up, startled. "Oh ... uh ... " She wiped her paws on her eyes. It didn't help. She swallowed, fumbling with her bags. "Uh ... "

" ... do you need help?" His whiskers twitched more.

"No. No," she stammered.

The mouse, though, didn't buy it. "You're crying," he whispered, in his wispy voice. All male mouses had that lightness about them.

No response. The tabby-cat just shakily stood. Tugging at her jacket, smoothing it. She wore no hat. And her tail didn't need a tail-sock.

"Here," he said, "let me help you."

"I don't need help!" she insisted, but knew it was a lie. She hesitated, the tears still coming. Dammit, why wouldn't they stop?

"Here," the mouse said, gently, not giving up. Not going away. "Look, I don't have to be anywhere. I'm not in a hurry. Let me help."

"I ... I was in an accident," the cat stammered, slumping. Feeling, oh, so weak. So frail.

"You don't have to explain," the grey-furred mouse insisted. His grey eyes, which matched the color of his fur, tender. "You don't ... "

"That's ... that's how I lost my arm," she stammered, explaining anyway. Cause she felt like she had to. Because she couldn't stop herself. "It was ... " Her voice caught. " ... an automobile accident." She shook, shutting her eyes. She remembered being hit. Remembered the other car running the red light. And then, after that, nothing. Until she woke up. Until she'd been told ‘we didn't think you'd make it,' and until one of the nurses, a squirrel, had smiled at her and said, ‘we've been praying for you.'

"My name's Perry," the mouse said, gathering the cat's bags for her.

"I'm ... I'm Milty."

"Milty." A shy, whisker-twitching smile. "That's pretty."

"Well ... well, my parents thought I was gonna be a boy. They picked the name Milton, but I was a girl, so ... "

" ... well, it's still pretty." A pause. His tail weighed down, but snaking, nonetheless, at its low altitude. "Your Nativity set ... "

"I dropped it," the cat whispered, weakly opening and closing her right paw. Her only paw. "I ... it's, uh ... some of the figures broke."

The mouse paused, shyly, and said, "Uh ... my church. The church I go to, I mean. We used some of our offering money to buy nativity sets to give out. You can have one," he said. "We have plenty."

"You ... you don't have to do that ... uh ... " She fidgeted.

"No, it's okay." His nose sniffed incessantly. A bit chilled. But no less active for it.

A pause.

"I'm going there tonight, anyway, for Bible study. I can pick one up for you. Or ... you could come, even," he suggested, taking a breath. Holding it. Letting it out.

"To a Bible study?" A blink. A sniff.

"Sure. We'll probably sing Christmas hymns and stuff, too. They might have cookies. We're always looking for guests ... "

"Well ... um ... okay." A weak, little nod. Nodding before she could convince herself to say no.

"Great." A smile. "Uh ... oh, do you need a ride home? Right now?"

"I was, uh, gonna take the bus." A swallow. "But, uh ... " A tiny nod. "I don't like the bus," she admitted.

"I don't blame you," he said. "Uh, I'm parked over here."

"Why are you being so nice to me?" Milty asked, humbled. "I'm ... I'm a cat. You're a mouse. I'm a predator, and you're ... prey. I ... why?" She was at a loss. She just didn't understand.

"Why not?" was his response. "It's what I'm supposed to do."

And Milty sniffled. "D-don't you have shopping to do, though? I ... "

"I was gonna get some groceries, but I ... I can wait ‘til tomorrow or something. Really," he insisted. "If you need help, I'd rather give it. The store can wait."

Milty swallowed. For the first time, not denying the fact that she needed help. And she just nodded. Vulnerably. "Okay," she whispered, and then she added a quiet, "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Uh ... this way," Perry said, taking a breath. Pausing a moment. Before leading the way.

She followed him. Trying to make small-talk. She wasn't used to conversing with prey, though. What did one talk to rodents about? What were they interested in? What did they like?

She wasn't sure.

But maybe she would find out. Maybe she'd just made a friend.

Maybe this Noel wouldn't be so heavy, as it had seemed, hours before, to be shaping up to be.

And though she hadn't bought any, maybe she would have lights, after all. Maybe, through the mouse's act of Christian kindness, she had just seen Light.

And, eyes drying, she smiled for the first time in a long time.