“Cats are a mysterious kind of folk”
—Sir Walter Scott
He was bored with the watching. It was beneath him to be lurking in lanes or skulking in the shrubbery. A man of his talents needed to be more creative in his cruelty. More Promethean in his persecution. He could of course just finish her off and discard her but he was beginning to enjoy this nice new game.
He’d watched her petting and fussing over those cats like the frigid old spinster she ought to be and he’d pondered life’s wondrous symmetry. He liked the sense of hidden patterns, of fractals spinning in the helix shell. A divine plan for his eyes only.
He knew all about cats. He knew what they were. His mind was filled with words and signs and arcane knowledge and he knew everything. Cats: revered by the ancient Egyptians as the goddess Bast, Celtic guardians of the Otherworld and Norse companions of the goddess Freya. Devious little creatures, little shape-shifters through the centuries. He’d never liked the way they looked at him, all jade-eyed and knowing, like they could see into the recess where his soul should be.
This little one had come dainty pawed into his clutches with not so much as a whisker’s twitch, lured by a sardine on a string. So much for guardians against evil or goddesses of protection, and nine lives would soon be debunked.
He liked the feel of it, the rightness of it, a cat playing its part again, albeit a minor role this time. He absentmindedly stroked its fur and felt its soft vibrations beneath his palm. Worthless, stupid thing.
It calmed him though. He needed to be calm after today and where he’d seen her go. If he closed his eyes it took him back to his childhood and a simpler time; a time when this was all he needed, a creature’s fate in his hands. Now he needed so much more and could feel the pressure building. He was losing control. Coming back home had done something to him. He could feel the strands of the man he’d chosen to be slowly unraveling.
He had to try and contain things for the moment though, pick his time. For now pussy could take the edge off his hunger. She was so wonderfully soft it was a shame he couldn’t keep just a piece. A little piece of pussy-pelt as a reminder of a job well done. He’d never been one for souvenirs though, not since that first time. Too bleeding obvious, too formulaic, too expected of him, and he was nothing like they expected. Although come to think of it, pussy pelt in all its connotations had a certain ring to it. Shame he hadn’t thought of it before.
He snapped himself out of his reverie. It was time. As a boy he’d liked to be inventive over a death, even a small one. It was only respectful to extract the maximum out of a life when it’s taken, but now it was time to be subtle. He had to cause the bitch pain while not giving anything away. It couldn’t look too deliberate; it had to be a message for her alone.
He’d considered wringing its neck like a chicken. He’d enjoyed watching his father do that enough times but a cat was a bit chunkier and he wasn’t sure he could get the necessary grip. He wished he still had access to the lab. A little chloroform would’ve made things so much easier.
He settled on chinning it like a rabbit. He wrapped his fingers round its neck in an “okay” gesture, although he hated to tell it but there was absolutely nothing okay about it. Nothing at all. He then grabbed its back legs and pulled, while simultaneously pulling its chin up to bend its back in a whipping motion. It was a struggle but he soon heard the satisfying pop of its little vertebrae. He gave it a few good tugs for good measure; if he was lucky he might get a good tug out of it later too.
It was dark and it was wet. He perched on tiptoe and watched her through the rain-splattered window. She looked troubled, poor poppet. If only she knew, her troubles were really just starting.