Tit for Tat, Little Cat

(Multiple stories rest here, and yet they are the same. In the days of my MFA classes, we were given an assignment: write a short story with an emotional punch. As the class continued, we whittled the story away until only the core remained.)

There is a black cat sitting on my kitchen table, drinking my tea. I don’t own a cat, let alone a black one. I have no idea where it came from. My doors are closed, my windows shut. I don’t like company, so I try to look like I’m not at home. Lights off, I use candles for light. You can’t see candles through my window shades, after all. I prefer isolation. The four-legged apparition has moved from my tea to my toast.

I thought my apartment was impenetrable. I hate this cat for stealing my solitude. I glare at it from the stairwell, but I don’t move. I just stare. The pawed pest continues to strut around my table, eating my food, walking all over my drawings. Little black paw prints dot the white canvas, claws streak through images, marring my last remaining connection to the outside world. My perfectly precise images smear to abstract. Butterflies become cruelty, flowers fear. Why won’t the monstrosity leave me alone? Why must I always be tormented? The shadow-like creature investigates my pen.

I had thought my last remaining connection was void of emotional attachment. I had worked so hard for that, focusing only on the image. Making it perfect. Ideal. Not abstract. I attached as little emotion to the drawings I sent out as possible. I only needed the world for food. It didn’t need me, and I didn’t want it. I don’t want anything. Except for the unwanted guest to move away from my pen.

My apartment grows darker, stained as the mystery decides that this object, this conveyor of my artistic whims, must be a toy. My already smirched perfection is now ruined beyond recognition. Everything gone, all my hard work for nothing. Again. The enthralled feline has now noticed my ink well.

I feel like I did back then. I remember the shadow creeping over my heart as people told me how sorry they were for my tragedy— and then returned to their families and promptly forgot about the sorrow plaguing me. As I watched everything slowly ruined. As all my hard work withered away. As the last light remaining to me was snuffed out. I couldn’t fight the darkness, so I embraced it. But as the cat stains my apartment with darkness that I didn’t plan for, I didn’t invite in, as the cat upsets both me and my ink well, I realize something. This time, I can do something. Hiding hasn’t helped anything; misfortune still finds me. I’m sick of feeling helpless.

I storm down the stairs and throw on the light switch. The cat startles, ink sprays everywhere, lands on the floor and streaks away. Chaos in cat form. I follow the expensive, impromptu trail, tracking the intruder all the way to the only unused room in my apartment. His room. I thought I had shut the door tightly, yet the smallest crack is there. I can feel the trapped air escaping. I know the coolness is from the air conditioning, but I imagine the breath of Death. He was the last one to ever truly touch that room. I hadn’t ever since. I just left it there, door closed. There is no mistaking the critter’s path. I stand at the door for a moment, my hand resting on the chilled wood. I gently press it open. Two orbs shine at me from the corner, tucked amidst toys that had been stained by many tears. Stuffed animals hugged to distortion, not all by my son.

It’s scared. Just like I had been.

“Tit for tat, Little Cat,” I call softly, squatting down and holding out my hand.

I think I’ll name the cat Revelation.

***

A cat is drinking my tea. I have no idea where it came from. I hate it for stealing my solitude. The pest struts my table, walks over my drawings. My perfectly precise images smear to abstract. I kept my last worldly connection void of emotion. I had worked so hard for that, focusing only on the image. Making it ideal. Not abstract. I only needed the world for food. My apartment grows darker as the mystery decides that my pen must be a toy. My already smirched perfection is now ruined beyond recognition. Everything gone, all my hard work for nothing. Again. The enthralled feline has now noticed my ink well. I feel like I did back then. As all my hard work withered away. As the last light remaining to me was snuffed out. As I accepted the darkness. But as the cat stains my apartment with darkness that I didn’t plan for, didn’t invite in, as the cat upsets my ink well, I realize something. Hiding hasn’t helped anything; misfortune still finds me. This time, though, I can do something. I storm in and throw on the lights. The cat startles, ink sprays everywhere, lands on the floor and streaks away. I follow, tracking the intruder to the only unused room. His room. I thought the door shut tightly, yet the smallest crack is there. The cool air feels like Death’s breath. He was the last one to ever truly touch that room. I hesitate, my hand resting on the chilled wood. I gently press it open. Two orbs shine at me from the corner amidst stuffed animals hugged to distortion, not all by my son. It’s scared. Just like I had been.

“Tit for tat, Little Cat,” I coax, squatting down. I’ll name the cat Revelation.

***

A cat is drinking my tea. I have no idea where it came from. I hate it for stealing my solitude. The pest struts my table, walks over my drawings. My perfectly precise images smear to abstract.  I had worked so hard to keep my last worldly connection void of emotion, focusing only on the image. Making it ideal. Not abstract. I only need the world for food, after all. My apartment darkens as the mystery decides that my pen resembles a toy. My already smirched perfection ruins beyond recognition. Everything gone. Again.

I feel like I did back then, when the last light remaining to me extinguished. When I accepted the darkness. But now the cat stains my apartment with darkness that I didn’t plan for, didn’t invite in. The cat upsets my ink well.

Hiding hasn’t helped anything; misfortune still finds me. This time, though, I can do something.

I storm in and throw on the lights. The cat startles. I follow, tracking the intruder to … his room. I thought the door shut tightly, yet the smallest crack is there. The cool air feels like Death’s breath. He was the last one to ever truly touch that room. I hesitate, my hand resting on the chilled wood. I gently press it open. Two orbs shine at me from amidst stuffed animals hugged to distortion, not all by my son.

It’s scared. Just like I had been.

“Tit for tat, Little Cat,” I coax. I should name it.

***

A mystery cat is drinking my tea. Satisfied, its paws abstract my drawings.  I worked so hard to keep them ideal. The stranger decides my pen a toy; my smirched perfection ruins. Again.

Feels like when I accepted darkness. Hiding hasn’t helped; misfortune still found me.

I storm in, and the cat startles, running to … his room. I thought the door shut, yet air whispers like Death’s breath. I hesitate my hand on the chilled wood before opening. Two orbs shine at me from stuffed animals hugged to distortion.

Scared like me.

“Tit for tat, Little Cat,” I coax.

***

A cat drinks my tea. Abstracts my drawings.  Worked hard to keep ideal. Pen turned toy, smirched perfection ruins. Again. Storm in, and it runs to … his room. Thought shut, yet Death’s breath whispers. Open chilled wood. Two orbs shine from stuffed animals hugged to distortion. Scared like me.