Hello! It's me Neon, i've made a side blog for a bunch of random stuff that I make that doesn't relate to the content I make on my og blog @neonpaperlanterns.
[A/n: This story is from the perspective of my childhood cat, may he rest in peace.]
When mom left I thought I was the only one who was hurting. I was in a new place, nothing smelled right, and I was under constant attack. My only saving grace was when she would close her door. He couldn’t get in and I was safe. Though I don’t know if I remember it being nice when I was there. It was barren and boring, just a mattress on the floor that I couldn't hide under when the door had to be open.
Not that it was often. She didn’t like it, she wanted that barrier. It took me a long time to realize she was trying to hide too. That she wanted to be alone but she couldn’t because I was there. And I wanted attention because I was hurting.
I would cry in the middle of the night, waking her up. She wasn’t used to it, I had only ever slept in moms room up until this point. I thought she would scold me or toss a pillow in my general direction. But she didn't. Instead she would get up and ask me what I wanted.
Did I want to play?
Did I want to snuggle?
Love?
What did I want? I wanted mom but she couldn’t give me that so I would cry and she wouldn’t sleep. I expected her to get frustrated, to toss me out and I would have to deal with him. But again she didn’t, she dealt with me and my late night contemplations. I started to appreciate her. Until now we had lived in the same house but we never interacted much. She was always unsure and I had loved mom more than anything.
Now though we shared a space. Against our wills yes but we shared it nonetheless. And as the summer waned my midnight complaints grew less and I took her up on her offer to snuggle. I took my place as the little spoon and used her arm as a pillow. It was different from how I slept by mom but it was nice. It was a cocoon of safety that I was remiss to leave.
We began to lean on each other more and more until it wasn’t me who cried at night. It wasn’t often but she would become overwhelmed at keeping everything in and she would cry. It was quiet so she wouldn’t wake anyone up. But I was awake and after all the times she was there for me I was determined to be there for her. Even if it was a bit annoying to have tears fall on me I pushed through. I let her cry on me and when mom finally came back, when we could finally go home I would still let her cry on me.
Years would go by and while she left and found someone new to cry on, I would always be here. Just like she was always there for me.
It’s dark, darker than usual. The street lamps are out and he won't use a night light. Complains that he can’t sleep, says that the sun is trapped in that wretched little thing I so desperately need.
He’s asleep now, I can feel the languid rise and fall of his chest under my palm. It mocks me, that simple ease in which he slumbers. That insufferable steady heartbeat of his. I hate how it taunts me. He sleeps so peacefully, his body so lax, while my eyelids are wrenched open. Forced to see everything that lingers in the nothingness that exists beyond his bed.
I have to suppose my only consolation is that I cannot see him either. But I can feel him, imagine him, see him in my mind's eye and is that not so much worse? The distorted visage of his unconscious face makes a shudder run through me. I can see it now! That crooked nose that twitched like a rat’s. Those pale cracked lips parted in the stupidity of sleep. And those eyes! Ugh those terrible, awful, horrible eyes! They may be closed but they never cease! Even in the throes of slumber they seek me out. I am sure of it! Hungry prying things that they are. Ready to suck me dry of warmth and life with a simple glance.
I loathe them.
“Do you sleep well?” I say in a sugary hushed tone dripping with disdain.
“I hope not.” I muse softly. My hand that had made its home on his paper thin chest curls, morphing into something more akin to a beast than a human.
“But you probably are.” Tap, Tap, Tap goes my talons. Gently drumming along with every accursed beat of his steady, steady heart.
“How unfair it is that you rest so undisturbed after what you took from me.” Lips peel back over barred teeth. His peace drives me to madness. I become unraveled with each even unfretted thud of that foul wretched organ that resides under sleep warmed skin.
Disgust burns low in my gut. I long to be freed from this all consuming blackness. To be bathed in the beauty of dawn would be such sweet relief!
But No.
I am confined to languish in this miserable desolate nothingness! And I don’t even have the joy of being alone. Being in this never ending sea of darkness with only my own heart beat as company would be more bearable than laying next to him.
Am I cursed?
Damned to suffer a fate worse than death? Is there truly nothing I could do to end this? To finally be unburdened and see the light.
“What am I to do?” I seeth.
“How can I fix this?” I choke.
“Am I truly only meant to suffer?” I sneer at that languid sleeping face. Tears prick and sting along my eyes as I receive no answer.
Is this it? My anguish gone unseen, swallowed by the night.
[A/n: Trigger warnings this story involves blood and gore, especially near the end.]
Everyday on the dot she asks in the same dull tone, “What time is it?” and everyday without fail I respond, “I don’t know the clock is broken.” It hasn’t changed, it’s been the same for years. But she always asks. It’s never ending.
It drove me mad when she used to ask. I didn’t know what I wanted more. To make her mute or myself deaf.
I fantasized about cutting her tongue off once. Because would it really have been fair if I deafened myself? I wasn’t to blame for the clock being broken and she knew that. She also knew that everytime she asked me. The answer never changed so why should I commit self mutilation when really it was all on her? Her dissatisfaction at the obvious and unchanging should be no concern of mine. But she always made it my concern. Every damn time she asked me “What time is it?” it became my problem. A daily problem that I longed to end.
And that’s why I fantasized about it, about taking her tongue. Only once though. Only once did I think about it. Dream about it. Let my mind wander as I waited for what was to come. It was inevitable and I wanted to pass the time. I couldn't decide if a pair of scissors or a carving knife would be more effective. Either way I would be watching as the writhing pink muscle fell to the ground with a wet slap. Blood would spray onto me, the ground, maybe even down her shirt. I don’t know how much blood would actually come out but in my dream it was a lot.
It would be warm and gratifying as she flailed on the ground. Choking on her own blood as she tried to scream. I liked to imagine the tears that would stream down her face. The look of confused betrayal as she laid there trying to ask why but she just couldn't form the words. But even though she could not ask, I would know and I would tell her. Crouching down I would gently cradle her cheeks in my hands, wipe her tears away and go,
“What time is it? What time is it? What time is it? What time is it?What time is it? WHAT TIME IS IT?” I could picture so clearly the expression that would mar her face. She would have been horrified, devastated. My stomach filled with butterflies as I continued to say it over and over again. Clutching her face tighter and tighter. My nails would bite into her soft cheeks and at least in my dreams they would puncture. Gouging into her flesh as I sang, “WHAT TIME IS IT! WHAT TIME IS IT!”
Tearing into her skin my hands would become drenched with more of her blood. Hypnotizing rivulets crimson would cascade down my fingertips, trailing along my wrists, staining the cuffs of my shirt. God it would be so warm, so delightfully warm that I wouldn’t be able to stop myself. I know only her tongue had been the problem but I couldn’t possibly stop there, right? I would need to get to the root of the issue. To truly make sure she never asked again I would have to remove her voice box. Not that I knew where that was exactly but going for the throat and ripping it apart would suffice. She wouldn’t be able to cry out anymore which would be heartbreaking but it’s the price I would need to pay.
And the simple pleasure of snapping the tendons in her neck would be more than enough to make up for it. I don’t know if she would still be conscious during all of this but it wasn’t reality. In my mind she was awake, she was aware. Her own hands would come up to claw at me. Trying to tear at my eyes, but the blood loss made her just weak enough that it would only be a mere tickle. I would commend her for her efforts and let her carry on in her plight to dislodge me.
Her efforts would be in vain, and slowly her arms would fall, her chest that was once heaving with exertion now slowing. A heartbeat that had once been thundering now dying down to a quiet whisper. I would relish in this, rubbing the pads of my fingers along her esophagus. Tracing along the hollow of her throat before finally plunging my nails in proper. That might garner me a faint gurgle which would be the cherry on top of this all. Just one more sound. One more weak attempt at a protest. One last faded wheezy scream and I would truly be satisfied. Or maybe she could parse out one final “What time is it?” and I could say “I don’t know the clock is broken.”
Wouldn’t that be poetic? It would be everything I needed before basking in this new way of living. No longer tied down by her and the status quo. No more answering the same question. Nothing. It would be perfect.
But all of this is a fantasy and one that I have only thought about once. Just a single time I thought about what would happen if I pounced on her before she could utter those dreaded syllables. If I could save myself from this sameness. From the mundane, the predictable.
It would have been beautiful. If fantasy became a reality.
“Hey.” My shoulders stiffen, it’s coming. I take in a deep breath. I can see her out of the corner of my eye. Dull face, dull voice, nothing new all the same.
“What time is it?” There it was. Everyday on the dot, over and over I was asked. I bite the inside of my cheek.
There is a beat of silence. Something flickers across her face. I breathe out.
My ears perked up at the faint sound that came from the living room. Blinking slowly I stretched out over my side of the bed. Yawning, I peeked over at father who continued to sleep soundly, undisturbed by what I had just heard. Jumping down I trotted out of the bedroom, careful not to let the door creak as I meandered onto my investigation. The hallway was unusually dark, encased in thick shadow that was only disrupted by the reaching glow of the picture box instead of the tiny lights that mother insisted on having in every room.
Slowing my gait, I rubbed along the scratching post of my palace. Back arching upwards as I paused beside father’s empty chair. Mother was sprawled across the floor, her breathing erratic as incomprehensible distressed noises spewed from her mouth. Tentatively I moved towards her, nose twitching as an unfamiliar familiar smell began to permeate the air. It was vague enough that I couldn’t place it but I knew it.
Brushing along mother’s hand made the scent intensify. Her digits flexed inward before her body sprung up. Instinctively I reared backwards, tail puffing up as I watched her. Mother moved like she hadn’t moved before. Limbs jerky as that smell worsened. It felt tangible, coating the room in a heavy perfume of something musty. My tail swished back and forth. Irritation and paranoia pulling my ears back, eyes widening as a distressed whine clawed its way from my throat; alerting mother to my presence. Her head snapped towards me, strands of hair obscured her face as we sat there for a moment. The only sound was coming from the picture box. It buzzed softly but continuously. The same noise playing over and over and over again, pouring into the room like a tipped water glass.
Mother was the one to break the stand-off. Her hand reached out, sluggish but intent as she grabbed at me. The fur along my spine flared up, mouth falling open as I hissed. Claws swept out, catching on the skin of mother’s hand. She didn’t jerk back and I felt the flesh give too easily. The tang of blood mingled with the scent I knew but couldn’t name.
Scrambling backwards, I couldn’t find purchase for a moment, nails getting caught in the carpet as I attempted to flee. Digits brushed along my hindleg and in a panic I snapped. Light glinted off my teeth as I sunk them into mother’s hand. My nose scrunched up as a horrid taste blanketed my tongue. It was a more concentrated version of the growing smell. Gagging on the flavor, I ripped myself away.
This was not mother. This was not mother. This was not mother!
The realization that the thing in the living room was not who I thought chased me back into the bedroom. Yet I did not know what else to call that thing masquerading as my mother. Barreling down the hallway I smacked into the door in my haste. The sound of it drowned out by me knocking over the trash can in my overwhelming need to hide.
Cloistering away in the safety of the tunnel beneath the bed I could feel myself shaking. Ears flicking back and forth, every sound a potential danger as my stomach convulsed. It was desperate to be rid of the substance I had swallowed, but it wasn’t safe. I would be vulnerable in those precious moments it took to purge my system and I simply could not take that risk.
Curling further in on myself I stared out into the bedroom. Father was still asleep, undisturbed by my frantic entrance. I could hear as he shifted above me, the sound of rustling blankets accompanied by a new wave of snoring. It was calming, it was normal, this was father. My hackles did not settle but my heartbeat began to steady.
Yet the little lights mother couldn’t sleep without at night began to flicker. The one near the forbidden room that mother retrieved new coverings from sizzled and popped. It flared brightly as if fighting to live only to be snuffed out a moment later. The one above my hideaway went out calmer, dimming to nothingness until everything was bathed in darkness.
Creak
Blood rushed in my ears as the door handle gently hit the wall. Pupils dilating and constricting as tendrils of light clawed their way from the picture box, only being obstructed by the looming presence of “mother”. She stood in the doorway, swaying back and forth slowly with whispered nonsense falling from her slackened jaw.
Flinching backwards I burrowed further into my tunnel. She couldn’t see me, I knew she couldn’t and even if she could she wouldn't be able to reach me. “Mother’s” arms weren’t long enough, only father could get me out.
Father who was still sleeping. Who slumbered too deeply to be disturbed by faint light and low mumblings. Who would continue to sleep and be blissfully unaware of “mother” and the scent of old that she brought with her.
He would not wake up and I didn’t know what would happen if he remained asleep.
Leaping from safety with my tail puffed and fur standing on end I snarled at “mother”. Fangs bared, I put myself between father and the shambling mess of “mother”. Swiping at air I dared her to get closer.
The curious noise she had been making stopped as she seemed to realize that I was there. Her swaying stilled, unseen gaze solely focused on me as she clumsily fell to the ground. Wheezing she shuffled forward, the same hand I had marred extending out. Thick black liquid oozed from the wound, dripping onto the carpet in pungent sticky globs.
A low terrified growl rumbled in my chest as I batted at the offending limb. “Mother” was undeterred, the center of her hand aimed to encompass my entire face until she… stopped. Or more like she was prevented from going further. It felt like when I would see a bird outside, taunting me, and when I would go to catch it I would run into the glass of the window. There was something that wasn’t allowing her to go further.
Her hand slapped wetly against the threshold. That same contemplative sound rolled from her throat as she was met with continuous resistance. Hesitantly I moved closer, stepping carefully as I pawed at the impression the door had left in the carpet. Whatever was stopping her did not stop me. Extending my claws I tapped them against the other side.
A peculiar noise left “mother” and then she was folding in on herself. Jumping back I scurried away from the hands that were grasping at where I had just been. Her jaw clicked as her nails scraped along the unseen barrier.
Pressing myself further against the cold surface of the bed I stared at “mother”. Her digits dragged along nothing as the whispering returned. She seemed unhurried as she explored, poking and prodding for a way inside. It appeared though she could not get in, yet I couldn’t relax. Father was still unaware of what was lurking outside so I would stay alert. I would continue to watch her, continue to make sure that she did not get into the room. I would stay up and make sure that father would be okay. With me as his guardian there was no way I was going to let her into this room…
BeeBeepBeeBeepBeeBeep
Startling awake I smack my head against the frame of the bed as I attempt to right myself. Sunlight filters in through the closed blinds as there is noise from above. It’s morning and that grating sound is the thing that makes father wake up every time. Leaping onto the bed I intended to greet father and let him know we made it through the night but I was not met with only blankets.
“Mother” groaned upon my landing. My back arched involuntarily as her form shifted, turning to catch me in her gaze. I lunged forward and “mother” yelped, shielding her face as I slammed into her forearms. My claws bit into her skin, but unlike last night there was resistance. Her flesh did not give easily and there was no harsh scent of spoiled blood. Just mother… It was just mother.
A hand pushed at me from the side, it was father. He was making discontented noises, the same ones he always made when I went after either of them with my claws. I was so happy, it must have been a dream. Mother was never something else, father was never in danger, and I never had any reason to worry. Collapsing onto her chest I rubbed my forehead against her arm. My parents sighed as they showered me with deserved affection.
As mother moved her hand to scratch under my chin I took note of the marks on it. Three jagged slashes marred the skin along with two faint puncture wounds. Rearing back, my tail puffed up. If last night was simply a dream then mother shouldn’t have those.
A look of concern overcame her face, shushing noises escaped her lips as she moved to hold me like she always does when I am scared. It was familiar but I couldn’t take my eyes off what shouldn’t be there yet I didn’t run away. She smelled like mother, there was no hint of that unfamiliar familiar scent on her. No foul smelling liquid oozed from her. She was just mother.
I let her bundle me into her arms. Let her shower me with kisses and reassurances but it did erase what happened last night. It did not hide the fact that I did not know if it would happen again.
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