Nine Lives

Here's Guy that calls me Not Chester's favourite piece. I wrote it a while ago, but thought I'd slam it up here for good measure.

Nine Lives
October 20, 2006

Allen was walking down the street when he first saw him. Just out of the corner of his eye, a liquid shadow darting its way into an alley.

So he took time out of his day for that small part of adventure the human heart seeks, and turned off the weel-worn sidewalk into the graffiti-marked alleyway. From the darkness, two bright green eyes stared up at him.

"Hey kitty. C'mere, I won't hurt you." Allen waved with his hands. A hiss came from the blackness. "I've got some nice snacks, c'mon. C'mon out of there."

Cautiously, the cat approached, stalking paw by paw. Allen stood as still as a statue, not daring to move lest he frighten the animal away.

And finally, the cat licked his hand. Its tongue was rough and warm, and it coiled up to his leg, its tail swishing. Allen reached down and picked the small black animal up with care.

"C'mon, let's get you inside. It's a cold winter this year."

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"There you go sweetheart!" Allen placed the bowl of milk on the tiled floor of his kitchen, slopping some over the side. The kitten licked it up with relish, then sat back and purred, stretching out on the floor.

"Okay, time for me to sleep, but I'll take you to the shelter in the morning." The cat looked at Allen with a curious, puzzled look. Then it grinned, showing sharp white fangs.

Allen stumbled up the stairs, leaving a light on for the little cat. He made his way into his bathroom, flicking on his lights, grabbing a hold of his toothbrush. He turned on the water.

Soon after, Allen switched off the water, bent over and dried his face with a handcloth. Then he looked up into the mirror, and spotted the cat sitting on the toilet tank. It looked at him with the same curious look.

"Whew! Startled me there, little buddy!" Allen picked the cat up with a miaow and set it on the floor, where it quickly scurried out of the room. Disregarding the animal, Allen slipped into his pajamas, only to find the cat back when he pulled his shirt over his head. This time, the critter was perched on the top of his dresser. It looked over him with brilliant green eyes, then let out a low purr.

Allen looked at the cat as it looked at him. Human eyes met animal eyes as the two regarded each other. Then suddenly, the cat leapt off the drawers and landed on the floor, its long black tail swishing. Then it looked back at him and meowed.

Shaking his head, Allen crawled into his bed, switching off his bedside lamp. And within minutes, he was fast asleep.

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Allen woke up with a start. At first, he didn't know what had disturbed his sleep, but then he spotted the cat. It was on his chest, staring him in the eyes. It tilted its head quizzically at him. The eyes, vibrant in the darkness, seemed like ghostly orbs floating in the air. Hypnotic, rhythmic, piercing...

His breath came quicker, as those eyes searched him. He panted, struggled, rose out of bed sweating, the cat jumping off onto the floor, where it still watched. He stood, his breathing heavy, and stumbled to the bathroom. His face was a mess. He was sweating, panting, his eyes bloodshot and his lip trembling.

He looked at the cat. It seemed to be enjoying his predicament, purring at him and coiling between his legs.

He looked down with dread, and an inscrutable expression in his eyes. The cat returned the look with a mocking gaze. With trepidation, Allen stepped carefully around the cat, giving it a wide berth, and returned to his room. Instead of returning to bed, he instead took a seat in his armchair, and picked up his favourite book. There was no way he could get back to sleep now.

When he put his book down, he noticed the cat on the ottoman watching him. Upon noticing his stare, the cat yawned and stretched out. Then it opened its eyes and continued its unfeeling observation.

And for the rest of the night, the two sat and stared. Cat to human. Soul to soul.

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The sun rose early that day, and the shadows were chased away, revealing the two, Allen and kitty, still locked in an internal battle between man and beast.

With a sudden meow, the cat leapt off the stool, and Allen smashed its head in with the book.

His mind had snapped, his reason had fled, and his sanity had been ruined in that epic contest. He struck again and again, the cat making a horrible yowling, and Allen felt a giggle coming on, and he knew if he gave voice to it he'd lose himself even deeper, and so he did, and the blood sprayed. And finally, Allen dropped the bloodstained novel, loose pages fluttering around the room like strange snowfall.

And then he stared. He just stared. With a shaking hand, he picked the body of the cat up by the scruff of the neck, tossing it out of his room, its broken neck flopping around like a puppet whose strings had snapped.
And then Allen sat back down with a heavy sigh, in the midst of a rain of shredded paper, in a puddle of blood, covered in the red fluid and bits of fur.

Then, he fell asleep, his mind already wandering the plains of peace, the lands of imagination, the world of dreams.

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It was about 4 P.M. when he awoke. He rose, awake and refreshed, ready to go. He stepped out of his room, whistling, made himself a cup of coffee in the kitchen, then went to fetch the newspaper.

And then he walked back into his kitchen, and saw the cat.

It looked at him with that same mocking gaze it had given to him the night, and in despair, he screamed.

"WHY! Why are you still alive! You should be dead! DEAD! I killed you!" He raged, he spluttered, he laughed maniacally, he looked at the cat, threw his head back with his eyes closed, looked again, then screamed in agony.

He looked to the counter, to the blades sitting there, to the trash compactor, to the blender, to the microwave.

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He finished within an hour. His hands were covered, slick with blood, matted with fur and bits of organs, and he laughed again, one long laugh, through the blood and fur and guts and small pieces of metacarpals and femour splinters, Then he dragged the small corpse out of the microwave, or what was left of it, tossing the remains down into the food shredder.

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But the cat came back the very next day, the cat came back, he thought he was a goner, but the cat came back, it couldn't stay away.

This time, Allen encountered it in the midst of the workplace. He noticed it from his computer screen reflection, then turned around, screamed a long dark scream, and grasped the animal before it could run away. With the cat struggling, he handed it to his coworker Jen, and ran, ran from it, from hell, from evil personified.

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And the very next day... Allen thought he was rid of it. But there it came, trotting back into his life like it did the first day, and this time, Allen was ready with a shotgun and blew the cat to pieces.

Later that day, Allen read in the news that Jen had committed suicide in her home, drowned in her bathtub. The strange thing was that the water was covered in a thin layer of fur, and was tinged red with blood.

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By then, Allen was paranoid, broken, his house full of blood and fur and pieces of cat.

And still it came back. As cheerful as ever, as mocking as always, grinning at Allen and revelling in his torture.

"Why won't you die?" Allen whispered as he strangled it. "Why won't you stop living?"

The cat scratched at his hands but was silent, although whether or not it meant to be silent or had no windpipe left was up to debate. Allen stared once again into those deep eyes, except now they were symbols of hate, of evil, of his neverending torture.

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The very next day, Allen went out into the street and paid a mercenary to handle the cat.

"You want me to kill a cat?" The gunman had snickered. "For this much?"

"Yes," Allen replied, his face pale. "Just... kill it, but make sure it stays dead."

The same man was found dead later that day, with cat scratches on his face and neck, a bullet through his temple.

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The cat came back the very next day.

Allen threw it in the closet, taped over the door, plastered it up and sat in front of it the entire day with a shotgun in hand. He could hear the hellish scratching and yowling as the cat pawed at the door, but slowly the noises stopped and when Allen summoned up enough courage to look inside, the cat was still as the night air. He took the body by the tail and hurled it into a wall as hard as he could, then threw it down the garbage chute.

By now, his mind was shattered, his body was wasting away as he disregarded his health and safety, obsessed with only the cat. So much blood, so much evil, and still it would not die.

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A week passed and the cat did not return.

Allen was beginning to regain control of his life, to clean up his house, to sort out his affairs, to return to work. His demeanour changed to how it was before. He smiled more often, although flinching every time he saw a black cat.

But he came home one day and it was there, as if it had never left. He stood, frozen, as it purred between his ankles. He slowly looked down as it looked up, and there they were once more, in a battle of wits and a struggle for sanity. With his heavy boot he stepped on it and broke its back, the tiny bones snapping like pretzels. Amazingly, it clawed at his heel until one more stomp crushed its skull like sugar glass.

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And that night, the cat came back, for what Allen would make sure was the last time.

He was sitting facing the doorway, a pet cage in his hand, a shotgun in the other, and all the windows closed. And the cat came back, yes it did, and this time, it came from behind, it leapt like a tiger on his head, tore at Allen's scalp, it slashed his face ruthlessly, plunging its claws into his eyes and throat as effective as any knife, it clung to his face, the warm, slick abominable creature that would not die and in desperation and panic, and in utter and complete insanity, Allen turned the gun on himself and killed them both in one shot.

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The very next day, the police found Allen in his pajamas, lying in a pool of his own blood, his face blown away by a shotgun shell, his brains spread like jam on the tiled floors. There was also a black cat, perched comfortably on his cold body, its soft tongue lapping up the redness like cream.