4 days have passed since my last writing, since the day those monsters, led by that man with the mustache, apparently shot and stole Pepita. I’ve been paralyzed, frozen with guilt and depression in a way I haven’t felt since I mistakenly ate all those sacks of rice meant to feed some kids in India. In many ways though, this is much worse, because I was able to quickly provide 50 pizzas and garlic knots to that village. There, there was closure. Here, so far, I see none.As I wrote before, I hold little hope that Pepita is still alive. But that little hope keeps me from throwing myself out of this 3rd story window, to deservedly compound my mental aguish with the pain of a broken ankle or perhaps, if I dive, some severely scraped knuckles and a shoulder blow.
Today is the first day since the day of the incident that I feel mentally capable to write, though it appears I've spent some of the intervening time expressing my feelings though art--there's painting after painting expressing grief and anger tossed about the room. But I don't really remember creating any of it.
I think that maybe I should reappropriate this art, start putting up flyers, “Lost: My life, my soul, my Pepita. Cat. Gray. May be suffering from gunshot wounds…” only to realize no one in their right mind would ever come forward, lest they be gunned down by the same faction that so savagely took her. Add to that the fact it must have been one of those artisans I paraded Pepita’s photographs to who led to her capture. If you can’t trust local drunken artisans, who is there to trust? There is no one.
Except… except there is one. That blow-bag phony Hemingway. Though I haven’t seen or heard from him since the day he shouted his warning that they were coming. Again, the guilt. Had I heeded him, instead of reasonably believing it to be a ploy to sucker-punch me with his fist holding a coconut, Pepita’s assassination (attempted, I hope) and abduction could have been avoided.
So despite my complete disgust with him, I fear he’s the only one I can depend on to help find her. The past few days I’ve been building to this, and even now I have trouble writing: Tomorrow, I will seek out Hemingway and forge an alliance to find Pepita. God, it’s all I can do to not... nope, I just threw up on the couch.
On another front, Belisma, who I forget is the rightful owner of Pepita, has no knowledge of any of this. I can’t shake the feeling she knew all of this was impending. And if so, what is it that ties her and Pepita to this revolution, or counter-revolution, opposition insurgency, or whatever the hell it is going on around here? I thought I was just taking care of a cat.