Conjuring Dreams or Learning to Write by Writing
Page 36
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He should be enjoying this. He should be feeling elation, power, ultimate control over something else that made him more than human, almost a god.
He should feel that way. He'd felt it so many times, that sense of omnipotence that made him forget his stinging shoulders and back where he'd been whipped, that made him forget the tears he couldn't stop himself from shedding while the belt scored him, that made him forget that someone else had power over him. When he had a living creature under his complete control, not just life and death, but pain and fear, it was electrifying.
Or should be.
Cats were so stupid. He hated cats
Dogs . . . dogs would whimper, cry, snarl, then look on you in defeat, fear and surrender in their eyes. Of course, you had to kill 'em somewhere quiet because they were so noisy, but it was always worth the trouble. They knew they were mastered.
Cats . . . cats never "got" it. They'd fight and fuss and scratch. They refused to know who owned them until they were dead. Shoulda left the damn thing be, stupid cat.
Damn cat, he should be feeling great by now. He should feel wonderful. Cat hadn't put up a fuss or nuthin', let him tie it up, stash that stupid collar in his pocket to get rid of later. The damn thing didn't so much as peep when he started cuttin'. Just stared at him with those freaky yellow eyes as he shredded its ear then cut off its tail. The smell of blood, that usually made him all but cum in his pants, just made him queasy as the cat stared at him, eyes not angry or begging. They were pitying him, just like Abby's mother. The fuckin' thing was staring from a growing pool of its own gore, its breath wheezing out painfully as its body started shutting down, and it was feeling sorry for him.
He was supposed to be the one with power, not this stupid animal who refused to be broken.
It was too much. He pried out one eye to stop the glare, but the other one stared at him, no longer pitying, at least, but not cowed neither. And somehow he couldn't bring himself to attack the eye until the rasping breathing . . . finally . . . came to an end. The eye didn't stop staring, blaming him, refusing to admit he was the victor. Not angry, not scared.
Defiant.
"Fuck this!" he hissed, shoving the cat off the upended laundry basket he'd used for an operating table and into the waiting trash bag. The smell of shit and cat piss mocked him with their pungency. He'd have to hose it down, but not until that cat had been left on the curb with the rest of the trash.
He'd wiped down his hands with baby wipes and then tossed them in the bag before closing it, then shuffled out of the back shed, dumping the bag in the can and hoping no one would see him.
No such luck.
It would have to be Abby, the nosy brat from next door, who was poking around her front yard in her pink outfit, looking behind bushes and under the porch. Her bronzed face and bare legs suddenly made her seem older than eight years. Her skin was smooth and unblemished without so much as scab on them—which pissed him off. God he hated that brat. Not ugly, not tainted, not angry, not lonely, actually wanted and watched over—he couldn't count the number of times he'd wanted to try his skills on her instead of some stupid pet, see how long he could keep her alive, how long she'd scream, how long she'd whimper, how long she'd beg. His heart pounded with the thought and his pants stiffened, as his job with the cat had failed to do. Yes, that would really be something, but he didn't have to look to know her mother was watching through the window. Someone was always watching out for Abby.
Eight years old and still hovered over like a baby.
"Have you seen my cat? Kismet?" she asked, oblivious to the lust for mayhem singing through his blood.
"I ain't seen your dumb cat." Maybe pets just weren't enough for him. He found his euphoria now just thinking about how her face would pucker and cry if he told her he'd killed that hideous cat, killed it slow.
Abby pouted. "He's pretty and black with golden eyes and a purple collar. You sure you haven't seen him?"
"I ain't seen 'im," he said, giving her head a shove, not quite smacking it into the mailbox. His other hand fingered the collar in his pocket, halfway hoping the bell would sound, but the pocket muffled it. "Who cares about your stupid cat anyway?"
Behind him, he heard the screen door open. Gotta keep control, he told himself. Not now. Not yet.
"Kismet is not stupid!" she said, pinking up. "He's special! He's the cat of fate. Mama said he'll protect me, that he'll make sure I'm not alone. You'll see!"
The thought of that cat, currently in pieces in the can he just left at the curb, made Wayne want to giggle like a loon. Some protection!
His voice squeaked with suppressed laughter. "Go on, git," he said "Your mom wants you inside."
Abby, her face red with anger, opened her mouth to argue. "Abby!" her mother said from the door.
"He is! You'll see!" Abby insisted, walking backwards toward her beckoning mother.
His laughter evaporated. Damn uppity brat. She'd learn about pain when she realized her kitty cat was gone forever. About damn time. He just wished he could be the one to tell her. "Good luck with proving anything with that cat," he muttered under his breath, feeling the first satisfaction he'd felt all day.
But it was the last satisfaction, too. He slept like shit that night, not just because his body still ached from the beating, but because, whenever he closed his eyes, that one yellow eye stared back at him and jerked him back awake.
He ran through his morning chores without a whipping or a scolding for once. As soon as the chance offered, he escaped, then stopped to laugh seeing Abby walking the neighborhood—all in purple this time down to the gray and purple sneakers—knocking on doors, asking about her stupid cat that would never come back. Her mother, of course, went with her.
Not satisfying, maybe, but it lightened his mood further as he scrambled out behind Lee's place to hang with his buds all afternoon. But that kid wandering, looking for the cat, kept crawling across his brain and it distracted him. And when it wasn't that brat, it was that cat staring at him with its one eye. After seeing one or the other every time he closed his eyes, he could hardly choke down the stolen beer that tasted like piss in his mouth or stand the pilfered cigarettes that smelled like cat shit.
When he moved wrong, the collar in his pocket bumped his hip, sometimes with a soft tinkle. He meant to toss it out, here in the woods where he'd be sure he'd never find it again, but he didn't want his buddies to see him with a stupid prissy collar or, worse, thinking it upset him somehow.
And every time he turned around, whether he was laughing, telling a story, just thinking, hell, taking a piss against a fence post, he could feel eyes on him. Well, one eye, but when he turned back, there was nothing there. And when he jerked around to see it, the collar always bumped him.
Maybe he was getting sick.
When he got home in the wee hours, more nauseous than drunk with the bitter brews, he thought he'd gather his thoughts in the shed before sneaking up the tree and into his room through the window. He didn't need another beating.
He'd half decided he was going to have to move on from pets. Especially cats. He knew who he really wanted under the knife, but he hadn't figured out how to pull it off. Yet.
He reached for the light's pull chain and gave it a yank, but no dice. Great. The moon came in fitfully through a dirty window, but the place still was full of shadows he didn't need.
Mew
He nearly broke his own head on the shovel sticking out of the barrel as he whipped around. He searched the shadows. Nothing. Shoulda barfed up all that beer. Probably gone bad or something.
Mew
He kept from hurting himself this time, but he could swear the sound came from somewhere else. He banged on stuff, hoping to scare it off or locate it, until he realized he'd be in a world of trouble if his old man heard him. If he was home. Shoulda checked the garage.
Mew
There! A single yellow eye staring at him from behind the watering can.
Mew
He advanced on the eye, but that mew definitely came from behind him. He turned again and something rubbed against his legs from behind. He couldn't turn around fast enough to see it but there was another yellow eye, glaring from the broken window pane. And on the work bench. And beside the mower.
He grabbed the shears, but, when he would have lunged, those furry monsters tripped him, not one but hundreds of cats, all teeth and claws and yellow eyes. No growling, no hissing, just silent pain slashing from every direction, their eyes gleaming in the dim light. Maybe he hit one or two, but he found himself helpless, unable to move when he spotted the black cat, sitting poised and peaceful, in the windowsill. Defiant. Pitying. Leaving him to his fate.