THE CAT

A small dark shape darts down the haphazardly patched street, through puddles murky with dirt, oil, and trash. The shadowy monoliths of apartment buildings loom like bad omens. Rats rummage through overflowing dumpsters, unbothered by anything but food. The night is silent but for the rain and the tinkling of a bell, once shining, now dull with grime, hanging from the thinning neck of a cat black with filth as he rushes to find shelter.

Ahead, a drab brown door stands under a single light on a smaller structure set apart from the rest. The light casts a yellow glow over the tiny garden of weeds and a raw boulder that runs along the front of the house.

The small feline scampers up the rickety wooden steps to the small porch that is just a concrete slab with no railing. The muffled sound of a TV seeps through the thin door.

Tail flicking, the cat sits then lets out a series of ear shattering yowls.

To the left of the door, something moves in the blue light that flickers in a filthy window.

Golden eyes blink as the door jerks open to reveal a gaunt, unkempt old man dressed in stained, thread-bare night-clothes. He holds a brown glass bottle in his right hand. The heavy stench of an unwashed body and alcohol makes the cat’s nose wrinkle.

“Stop your caterwaulin’ and get out of here,” the scowling man says, his harsh voice scratchy as he waves an arthritic hand.

The cat’s tail whips as the man turns, ready to shut the door. “Let me in, Peasant.”

The man freezes.

“Are you as deaf as you are ugly?” The cultured voice is deep.

The old man slowly turns, hands shaking.

The cat remains still, staring at him.

He glances at the bottle in his hands, before shaking his head. “Need to lay off the booze,” he says.

“A disgusting habit.”

Mouth agape, the old man stares at the cat whose mouth had indeed moved.

Its eyes narrow. “You seem to lack intelligence, so I will get to the point.” It stands, prowling closer to the paling man. The bell at its throat chimes with each step. “I need shelter, and your humble abode seems the best option.”

“You’re t-talking.” The old man’s voice wobbles as his sagging jowls tremble.

“Yes, obviously.”

“But, you’re just a cat.”

Its back arches. “Just a cat? I am Admiral Meowington.” Teeth bare in a hiss.

The old man gapes, before dissolving into wet chortles that send him into a coughing fit. “Admiral Meowington?” He looks around with wide eyes, wiping spittle on his dirty sleeve. “Have I died? Am I in hell?”

“You dare mock my name? You insignificant imbecile.”

The cat launches himself at the man’s leg, growling, clawing and biting.

With a scream, the old man tries to wrench the cat away from his bleeding leg. Claws dig into dry liver-spotted flesh like pick axes in ice as teeth stab and rip, the bell ringing frantically.

The old man staggers. Sensing the shift in its victim’s weight, the cat pushes off the man’s leg. With nothing to stop his body the old man stumbles off the porch with a yell, landing in the weeds.

His head hits the sharp edge of the boulder with a crack.

The cat stands on the porch listening to the man’s breathing and heart slow to a crawl. “Useless.” With one last flick of its tail, the cat scurries into the warmth of the musty home with a happy jingle of its bell.

Kathryn Millan is an emerging writer who specializes in character-driven romance, horror, and contemporary fiction. Based in northern Indiana, she draws inspiration from nature, dreams, and the people around her. She is currently working on her next project, continuing to explore the limits of love and resilience in her writing.