She nods and continues to take notes, but I notice something a tiny change in her expression, something like a grimace that breaks through her half-smile, just for a moment, before she composes herself. So I continue. I describe how I would hear a soft crunch under the rock as I dropped it on the bird. How their bones were weaker than twigs in my hands. She nods, as if she understands, but I know she has no idea what it means to put an end to a life.
She has no idea what I felt, at that moment or any other.
I begin to tell her about the cat, the small black-and-white kitten, that I found by the side of the road one day. It had been injured, its hind legs broken and bloody. It was squealing loudly, and for a second I thought maybe I should take it home as a pet. I would heal it, give it some medicine and fix its legs. But I knew that it was hopeless, it was too weak to survive. It would not even last the journey home. As I picked up the rock I thought, Im sorry, but this is the way life is. In this world, some of us are strong, others are weak. Some will live, others will flourish, all will die. I wanted to feel pity, but I didnt. I brought the rock down hard on its head. Then I lifted it again, trying not to look at the black-red mess staining the hard earth. I hit it with the rock another time, harder, to make sure the cat was no longer suffering.
She continues to look down at her notebook, but she has stopped scribbling her pen is poised over the page, waiting. Her jaw hardens, twitching slightly on the right side. For once, she does not look at me, but focuses on her notes. At last she smiles again, but her brow is still tight the corners of her eyes a little creased. She says, Umm, but then she has to clear her throat. As if shes going to cough, only she doesnt.
Today is a normal day, meaning were relaxed, and conversation is easy. I dont have much to say of interest, but thats OK. She doesnt mind if I ramble. We have a couple of moments silence, but nothing that lasts too long. We dont have any of those awkward pauses we used to have in the early sessions, when I sometimes felt like fleeing the room. Im talking about all the things I intend to do if I strike it big on the lottery one day. Maybe go travelling. Maybe get some training on computers. Shes smiling while she writes in her notebook. She raises her eyebrows as if to say, Thats a great idea.
But as Im talking, something comes to mind, as it sometimes does when Im with her. I remember the look on her face after I told her about the cat her lips pulled into a smile, but her eyes narrowed, accusing me of something. But what? I dont know what to call the look on her face. I dont know if I can call it anger, or contempt, or sadness.
And I cant stop the thought from forming in my head: she cares more about the cat than she does about me.