MicroHorror

The cat scratches on the basement door. I’ve been waiting for this. I whisper to your mind.

“You worked hard at the hospital today.”

You’re on the couch, feet propped up, trying to watch television, trying to relax. You can’t release the tension, though, because you can’t ignore that sound, that constant scraping of claws on wood. You can’t hear me like you hear the cat or the sitcom, but you can hear me in a different way.

“The baby will probably wake up crying tonight, and Sheela will take forever to get to it. Then, when she gets up, you know she’ll leave the door open so light comes in and won’t let you go back to sleep.”

Your heart thumps, and your breathing quickens. Your muscles tighten, causing you to sense the pain in the back of your neck. The scratching seems louder.

“Of course, when you get back to sleep, the hospital will call to say one of your patients is crashing.”

At this point, you can’t even hear the TV. You try to ignore the noise, but you can no more ignore that than you can ignore thoughts about the patient complaint from two days ago, the one your colleagues assure you won’t amount to anything but that remains trapped in your mind nonetheless.

“You’ve busted your ass to get to where you are. And you still toil everyday. Yet you have to sit here in the four-bedroom home you pay for and be discomforted by a cat your money rescued from the shelter.”

You clench your fists and shake a little.

“Sheela wanted the cat. Then she wanted the baby, and demanded the cat remain downstairs. Now the cat won’t stop scratching at the door, and she says you should just ignore it. She can ignore it, because her small mind doesn’t notice that much. She doesn’t understand that it’s not so simple for you.”

You stand up, but you’re not sure why.

“Sheela and the baby aren’t here right now. Why not do what you want to do?”

You rush toward the back of the house, to the basement door. I have you now. You grab the knob, give a crazy laugh and shout, “Here I come!”

You open the door. The fuzzy, orange cat is on the top step, looking up at you. You snatch it up, then pull it back in one hand.

“Yes! Do it! Teach that damn cat a lesson it won’t forget!”

Your hand starts to go forward, but stops. You stand very still for a few seconds, then take in a deep breath. You move the cat in front of you and hold it with both hands.

You gently laugh and speak to it in a way that is sickening to me.

“What’s wrong, buddy? You lonely?”

You walk with the cat held close to your body so that it purrs. You take it to the bottom of the stairs, show it where its food and water are.

“See. It’s nice down here.”

You get down on the floor and throw little cushballs for it, pull a string, think nice thoughts about getting the cat a friend to play with.

I’m so sickened I have to go upstairs to be away from you.

Sometimes I think of leaving, but I know I won’t. Your mind is like a trap, and I know once I get a good grip on it, you won’t be able to get me out. I just have to make you throw that cat one time, or maybe kick it, to make you feel the pleasure of violence. Then I’ll get you focused on that neighbor kid who plays his bass too loud, or maybe your wife, who has lost interest in sex, or maybe that baby that screams at night.