I am the cat of two people, two girls. In the morning, I lick at my beautiful golden fur on a bright yellow cushion next to a window of sunshine and trees. In the evening, I feast on freshly bleeding crimson meat curled up in front of me on a black cushion.
The first girl, living in an orange house with a white roof, freshly painted every year. Her fence is sometimes blue, sometimes green, and sometimes purple. Flowers of the matching colour always sprout next to the fence. Each flower is trimmed. The grass in her garden always mowed like the remnant hair on her husband’s head. Her dresses are puffy and long, like a tulip or dangling bluebells. She wears gloves, to match her dresses. Her hair twirled and went on in such a manner down her back to her waist. She combs them every day and every night, and never pulls them into any sort of braid. She would tuck her hair behind her ears, and delicately slide her glasses across her small and pointy nose, yet, rounded at the tip as if the nose of a cat, bringing all sorts of chiaroscuro to her face yet still coherent with the rest of her contours. She would blink, and rest her hazel eyes on you like a leaf kissing an autumn lake. Her husband is not so different. A quiet man, tall and slim, and moves in graceful movements, exhibiting elegant control of each of his muscles, as if a herder leading his sheep. He works at a small legal firm, and occasionally goes out to shooting rink with his friends, but never too late, and never reeks of beer when he comes home. This I know because I leave at the first click of his key, and always arrive at the second girl’s house at 9 pm, accompanied by the first click of her keys.
She, the second girl, lives in a grey house, with some cracks stemming from the root of the walls. Her fence is nothing but a few pieces of wobbly wood the previous tenant stuck into the soil in an attempt to build a fence, and moved before the project finished. Her grass was never mowed, but it didn’t need to be anymore, as an exceptionally cold winter hit, followed by a season of gloomy rain, then a season of blazing drought, the grass could not bear such torments, they coiled back into the soil, and never came out again. Her bed is always unmade, navy blue sheets crumpled at the foot of her bed. When she is exceptionally busy and tired, the sheet joins in the puddle of done laundry and week-old socks on the faded wooden floor. She leaps out of bed in the morning to the silence long after the last ring of the alarm, looks at the time, and runs to the bathroom. She brushes her teeth while putting on socks, and washes her face while putting on shoes. Her fridge is almost always empty but occasionally, in the corner lies a bag of toast always eaten untoasted, or a few apples always eaten unwashed. She comes home, splays out her limbs on the couch, drowses off for a few minutes, then sits up, stares emptily at the stained wallpaper, and takes out the chunk of meat she bought on her way home to feed me. Sometimes it’s cow liver, sometimes a small chunk of beef, and occasionally, a good lamb chop. When there is lamb chop for me, she always buys herself a bottle of wine and a piece of steak, and we eat at the dinner table. I would sleep next to her bed, and leave in the morning after she left for work. She also works at the small legal firm as the first girl’s husband, but she does not have a wife who stays home, makes the bed, folds her laundry, buys groceries, and brings life to the garden.
They do not know each other, and think of me only as their cat. The first girl never notices how I stuff the cat food inside my mouth, dig a hole in the back of the house, spit, and bury it. The second girl never noticed the smell of lavender on me when the first girl lit scented candles in her house.
But they were soon to meet.
One day, the husband of the first girl left at home a file so important, that he asked her to bring it to the office for him. The girl found the file, a few papers in a red folder, and walked to the office to bring her husband the file, for she did not know how to drive. But when she arrived, her husband was knee-deep in a meeting with some clients, she was told to wait for some time because these are legal documents and best be handed straight to her husband. So she sits on the couch and waits. How would I know? You might ask. Well, I happened to be sitting on a very tall tree that is near the window of the firm and could see so very clearly everything happening inside with my cat eyes. It was a hot summer day and I had nothing to do. The second girl just so walked out of the meeting room to refill her client’s cups of water, the first girl saw her and walked over, “Hi, I am just here to drop off a file for Mr. Henley, I was told he’s in the meeting room right now and I saw that you came out of there, so I was wondering if you could tell me how long would it be before the meeting ends?”
The girl said, “Oh, you must be Mrs. Henley, we have heard so much about you, and of course your wonderful cooking, we’re all very jealous of Mr. Henley’s packed lunches. Things are quite heated in there and it might take a while, would you like me to pass it to him?”
“Oh it’s alright, I’ll wait, he said this is a very important file and mustn’t be lost.” Mrs. Henley carefully lifted her long curly hair and sat down on the couch again.
“Would you like some company perhaps? They don’t really need me now in the meeting room.” The second girl asked.
“Oh that would be lovely, thank you.” Mrs. Henley said. “What’s your name?”
“Oh sorry, I forgot to introduce myself,” the second girl took a drink of water, coughed, and said “My name is Joanna, but everyone calls me Jo.”
“Nice to meet you Jo,” Mrs. Henley smiled, and tucked her hair behind her ears. “You can call me Ella instead of Mrs. Henley, Mrs. Henley sounds rather formal.”
The man typing away beside the window suddenly stopped, looked at the fluttering pieces of paper trapped under his mug, and closed the window. I could no longer hear their conversation, but they talked for quite some time, Jo and Ella both smiling, sometimes letting out a little laugh, and sometimes laughing together. Until Mr. Henley walked out of the meeting room, says goodbye to his clients, and turned to Mrs. Henley. She immediately stood up, handed the file to her husband, said something to him, he said something back. She was probably asking about his work, but not too much, while Mr. Henley was probably apologizing for his forgetfulness and the long wait. Mrs. Henley shook her head, smiled, looked at Jo, said something to Mr. Henley, Mr. Henley beamed and probably thanked Jo for keeping his wife company. Mrs. Henley nods to Jo for the last time, and leaves.
I climb down from the tree and speed home.
That night, I was munching on some lamb chop, and Jo seemed exceptionally cheery, since she decided to buy herself a bottle of wine and a steak even though it’s not paycheck day. Then, Jo’s phone rang. Her hands cutting the steak hung in midair, looked at me, then looked at her phone. She hadn’t received a call in so long. “Oh hi Jo, it’s Ella, I wanted to invite you to dinner Friday night, Rick (Mr. Henley) won’t be home but I want to thank you for waiting with me at the firm earlier today.”
Jo’s knife dropped onto her plate, I jumped at the clatter. “Yes! I mean, yes, Friday works for me, and it’s really nothing Ella, it was a pleasure chatting with you.”
I looked up, and gave Jo my best attempt at a quizzical stare, Jo glanced at me, rolled my eyes, and pointed at my lamb chop, mouthing “Just eat.”
I gladly finished the lamb chop, licked my nose, and went off to bed.
Friday soon came around, I left Ella early that day knowing I wouldn’t be missed, hopped onto a tree branch, and peeked into the house. Jo, as clumsy and inexperienced as she is, brought flowers, dark crimson roses, which Ella hugged to her chest with a warm smile, and arranged them carefully into a vase. Dinner is fancy and much today for only two people; I see a bottle of wine, and Jo is prone to get mildly drunk on wine, perhaps that’ll happen today. They sit down, start talking as if that pot of fine beef stew is not just sitting there, waiting to be devoured. Soon, after the third refill of wine, both were rocking back and forth like the dancing leaves of palm trees under the coercion of the evening wind, they leaned in to talk, and leaned back to laugh, and leaned in again. I watched as the wine swirled in their cups, the stew swirled with each spoonful, Ella’s hair swirled at Jo’s words, Jo’s heart swirled at her, I know it did.
Then, I heard the rustling engine of a car, Mr. Henley is home. I stretch my legs, knowing Jo would come home soon.
After that dinner, there came many more dinners, and soon grew to once or twice each week. It was always at Ella’s, but then, Jo invited Ella to her house. At first, Ella was reluctant, doubting whether Jo knew how to cook, but Jo ensured Ella that she used to cook herself steak at the end of every month, accompanied by some wine, and Ella said she’ll ask Rick, who’s jealousy is brimming for their frequent dinners and his lack of attention from Ella. At first, Rick was hesitant, complaining about the lack of time he has with his wife, but Jo assured him she would bring Ella home before 10 since she leaves work early on Fridays, and Rick would not be on his own for long. Unable to find other excuses, Rick agreed.
The dinner at Jo’s was nothing different from the dinners at Ella’s, except there were lit candles, and freshly bought flowers already sitting on the table. Jo took time to scoop her clothes off the floor, folded them, and organized them into the closet. She took time to mop the floor and wipe the sink. She bought the steak beforehand, and some vegetables, and wine, the fridge gained a fresh sense of liveliness. She fed me early and apologized for not eating at the dinner table with me because she had set it already with tablecloths, I was happy as long as I had my freshly bleeding slab of meat. Lamb chop.
Soon, I settled on a tree again, the branches danced a bit as I hopped on, the frequent lamb chops have not been merciful to my drooping belly. Jo picked Ella up from her house after work, and I settled into deep sleep to the sound of the engine of Jo’s little red car. I woke up to a few plump wet drops, and some hooting behind my back. An owl. I stretched my legs, and leaped off the tree, I smell a storm coming. Just as I climbed onto the porch, Jo and Ella hurried out of the house as Jo steadied an umbrella over Ella as the rain began to pour. The wind howled. Are they just leaving? Surely it’s past ten.
I squeeze into the house before the door closed, the rain was too big for either one of them to notice. The clock struck eleven just as I got in. Through the window I saw the little red blur speeding down the road into the grey wetness.
I sat on my black cushion, enjoyed the blasting rain, and waited patiently for Jo to return. 30 minutes later, I heard steps on the front porch. Jo’s back. But she didn’t come inside. I climbed onto the window and meowed at her. Her hair was wet, strands sticking to her forehead, and some slammed onto her shivering lips from the wind. She fumbled in her pocket for keys. Realizing, she looked at me, and mouthed “fuck”. I watch her run back to her little red car, and disappeared into the gray wetness again. I jumped onto the door handle, opened the door, took a look at the shining piece of silver resting on my black cushion, and headed into the rain. Jo would never know that her keys are sitting safe and sound inside her house, she had dropped it when escorting Ella to the car. I brought it in with me.
I ran down the road to Ella’s house, knowing far too well what I was expecting. I sat on the red and pink fence, that Ella and Jo painted together just a few days ago, and watched as Jo rang the doorbell. No one came. She rang the doorbell again. No one came. She rang the doorbell again, and shouted, “It’s Jo, I think I left my keys inside.” A few moments later, the door creaked open. Mr. Henley peeked through the crack, and said “Sorry, I don’t think you left the keys here, I didn’t see it anywhere.” Jo seemed surprise to see that it’s Mr. Henley opening the door, “Oh it must have fell under something, do you mind if I come inside and take a look?” Mr. Henley, still speaking through the crack, “oh no I’m pretty sure it’s not here.” Puzzled, Jo insisted, “please, I’m stuck outside my house in this pouring rain, I will leave as soon as I find my keys.” After a few moments of consideration, Mr. Henley opened the door.
I leaped onto the windowsill, stood on my hindlegs, and nudged at the window, I knew it could be opened. Quietly, I slipped through the crack and snuck into the house.
Jo came into the living room, knelt down, and began searching for her keys under the couches. “I must have dropped them here when Ella insisted that I stay here a bit longer.” Mr. Henley looked a bit restless, pacing around the room, “or you might have dropped in the rain? In your car?”
“Oh, unlikely, I practically flipped my car inside out looking for it already.” Jo replied, flipping over the cushions. “Well, perhaps its under something like you said, stuck in a gap somewhere maybe, I could help you look in your car.”
Jo stood up, and asked quizzically, “or you can help me look for it here? In your house?” Mr. Henley sighed, and started flipping through the cushions as well. “And also, where’s Ella?” Jo asked with her head stuck in between cushions, missing Mr. Henley’s shudder. “Oh, umm, showering, don’t wanna catch a cold from the rain.” Jo nodded, and stood up, “do you mind if I use your other bathroom?” “Umm, sure, it’s upstairs by the master bedroom.”
Jo walked upstairs. I slipped behind the couch, and followed her up the stairs. Had she noticed Mr. Henley’s odd manner, the missing vase with her flowers in it, now laying broken in the sink? Or have she seen, beneath Ella’s gloves, long dresses, and under her long curly hair, the dark purple bruises spotted like mold across and underneath her skin? Perhaps when Ella’s hair got wet from the rain, or how she did not take off her gloves during any of their dinners?
Jo stole a glance at Mr. Henley, still stuck in between cushions looking for her keys downstairs, and opens the door to the master bedroom. I heard a small gasp, and a small cry, followed by another soft cry. Ella.
I pace outside the door, anxiously, and peek down at Mr. Henley, who has his head out of the cushions now. Noticing Jo’s delayed return, he gazed upstairs, and began to climb up. I squired underneath a small table, with an empty vase on top, and watched his nervous footsteps approach the bathroom. He knocked. There was silence. He knocked again. There was silence. He knocked again, and said “I didn’t find the keys, it’s not here.” There was silence. He froze, and I see his feet pivot, to the direction of the master bedroom. “Jo, are you there?” He places on foot in front of the other, and crept towards the room. “Jo, I know your keys are not here.” He wraps his hand around the door knob. I poke my head out from under the table, and watch. As he turns the door knob.
He yanks the door open. No one was inside.
Rain spat on the bed through the open window. Alarmed, he pokes his head through the window, and looked down. Sure enough, Jo was already standing on their well-trimmed garden, helping Ella down to the ground. Blood smudged on the white windowsill and orange wall. Quickly, Mr. Henley pulled his head back from outside, and ran downstairs. I climb onto the windowsill, licked at the crimson smudge, and watched the three figures wobble back and forth in the pouring rain like the branches did as I leaped onto them. Mr. Henley raised up something. His gun. His beloved entertainment on Friday night outings with his friends. It was never to drink. “Don’t go Ella!” He shouted into the rain. “I will never hit you again! I promise, don’t leave me, you don’t want to do that! I could go to jail, you know that! I mean it this time, I will never lay my hands on you ever again! You don’t even know how to drive, you don’t have a job, you don’t ever leave the house, how would you survive without me!” Jo turned around, “she have me!” She saw the gun.
Jo froze. Ella turned. Ella froze. I lick at paws. Oh well.
I leap onto the white roof below, and climbed down onto the ground.
“Don’t move a step further! Or I’ll shoot! You left me with no choice Ella.” He points the gun to his head. “I can’t live without you.”
“No!” Ella screamed, lifting her foot to take a step towards Mr. Henley. I knew it. No wonder she stayed for so long, tended the house so properly, and made him delicious packed lunch. They were happy once, I knew, when I first peered into their living room from the window as a kitten, Ella did not wear gloves then, and had shorter hair. I watched them, the Henleys, paint the house together. The walls orange, the fence blue or green or purple. I watched them mow the lawn together. Remnants of these days lies in such things, she could only lick at them now as she does these things, changing the colour the fence everytime Mr. Henley apologized and made a promise to her.
“No Ella!” Jo grabs her wrist. Ella winced, but takes a step back.
“He doesn’t love you, he will never fulfill his promises. He pointed a gun at you! Look at your arms!” Jo pulls down Ella’s gloves.
Ella turned and closed her eyes.
“You’re right.” The red and pink paint from the fence melts onto her palms. She squeezes Jo’s hands, “I have you now.”
Mr. Henley slowly lowers his gun. “I just can’t let you go, Mrs. Henley.”
He points the gun at Jo.
I creep up behind him, and leaped at his arm. He squeezes the gun.
And fired.
No one had time to move. This is not the movies.
“No!” The bullet eats through the skin, the fat, the tissue, the blood, the muscles.
Ella collapsed. Jo leaps at Mr. Henley.
Terrified, unconscious. The beauty of organisms, survival.
He fired. Jo collapsed mid-air.
I stood behind him. There was no use checking the bodies now, even if they lived, he fired the shots. He would be in jail, sentenced. I knew he couldn’t take it. I’ve watched everything for far too long now.
I waited patiently for reality to circle and lick at its final victim. The rain washed him, and washed the two girls laying on the ground. I imagined his eyes, stretched out, like the eyes of fish popped out from their sockets as I pulled on either side with my claws. I do not take joy in watching kills choose their ends, they were all meat at the end of the day.
It was too long. But finally, he picked up his gun, lifted it to his brain.
And fired. I shuddered in excitement.
I wait for the river of delicacy to trickle to my paws, and followed its path to my long-waited feast.