The Cat Died Today

by Leah Skay

The apartment is empty of all living things but you: no cockroaches under the fridge, arachnids in the corners, or flies in the fruit. The cat died this morning after it licked the dollar store pesticides off the counter. You keep the bedroom door open for her like always, a sad memorial of an empty space at the end of the bed and a tipped water bowl. She should be there, staring out into the hallway with intense concentration, but she’s not. The air conditioner is broken, the television is off, and the front door is locked. You are the only thing in this apartment and the silence has made that abundantly clear. What is walking in the hallway? 

One. Two. Three. The apartment is small and cheap. You’re saving up to move somewhere nearer to your sister. She likes your cat. She’ll be disappointed when she learns it died today. She’ll be disappointed you died in a shitty downtown apartment when she could’ve helped you pay for a new one. Count the paces of the walking in the hallway and hold your breath.

Four. Five. Six. You should be hiding, running, reporting an intruder to the police, but instead your tired, heavy body refuses to leave the safety of your bed. You know this apartment, this bedroom, this blanket. Don’t move. You can’t even if you wanted to. 

Seven. Eight. Nine. The walking stops. Please let them think you’re sleeping. You’re supposed to be asleep.  

“Are you awake?” 

You didn’t hear them walk from the doorway to your bed, but peppermint breath blankets your face. Your heart flutters and your limbs are frozen. It feels like something is pressing on your chest. Are they on top of you? How did you not hear them? 

“You are awake, aren’t you?” They ask. “Look at me, won’t you?” 

Maybe if they think you’re dead they’ll leave you alone. Cold hands with long fingers slide down your cheeks and curl around the blanket under your chin. Imagine them like tree branches, crackling. That way they can flower with white blossoms and be something pleasant. You want to cry, scream, beg. You can’t even twitch your stiff sausage fingers.

“I need to ask you something,” they say. “But where did the cat go? She should be here on the end of the bed, keeping your feet warm.” 

Don’t say anything. Why do they know that? You got the cat from a shelter in Poughkeepsie after you moved out of your parents’ place. You’ve never been good at being alone. Paranoid, panicky, a recluse in the making. The paralysis was the worst part. The therapist your sister took you to recommended animal therapy. At least that way you’d be forced to go outside to get kibble and the cat could wake you up. You know you locked the front door. You know no one should be here. You know someone is sitting on your chest, sucking the air from your lungs. 

“Has the cat gone and left you alone? Such a small place to be alone. It wouldn’t feel much better in a bigger home. May be better in one with more people, though. Or cats.” 

Your lungs are collapsing inside your ribs, under the weight of the thing sitting on you. The fingers slither up and down your face, tracing lines from your eyes down your cheeks onto the blanket. Knees rest on your thighs, elbows on your forearms. You can’t move. You can’t breathe. You’re dying. Die faster. 

“Look at me, won’t you?” the voice repeats. “I have a question for you.” 

Your fingers are beginning to move, twitching, stretching, clasping the sheets. You still can’t open your eyes, not that you even want to. You don’t want to know what’s sitting on you. It’ll kill you. You’ll die. You think you want to die. 

The breath gets closer and you feel cold skin press against your nose. The thin hands hold the sides of your face and your muscles flatten beneath the pressure of their body. They hold you. They have you. You are theirs. 

“Did you miss me?”

When the silence returns, the weight lifts from your chest and you spring up, staring into the darkness of your bedroom. Your muscles ache, your cheeks are cold and wet, and you are alone. Sit there. Everything is the same. The cat is gone. The air conditioner is broken. The bedroom door is closed and you can’t remember if it was ever open in the first place.