Memoirs of a Cat

On tiptoes, she shuts the door. Click. Holding me by my neck, tight so my feet dangle, grazing the floor. I squirm and wriggle and offer a low throaty moan as a warning. She takes no notice. She hums a tune like a lullaby, a funeral hymn.  This is not new. I have been dragged from my resting place to this pink prison on many occasions.

The first time, I lashed out with a swift scratch. It only made it worse. She screamed and cried and accessories were added to the humiliation; a bracelet around my neck as my noose, beads on a thin string for handcuffs. Grubby hands pawing and clawing and pulling at my fur.

The teddy and the dolls lay naked on the floor and the prison rags are laid out. I see the bonnet. It is a pale blue with white lace fringe. I hate the bonnet. The last time I wore it I had tried to run. It had slipped around to the front and covered my eyes. I had no choice but to go backwards. She liked this. She laughed. She took hold of me, straightened it and tightened it. “There, that’s better.”

Broken Doll.

i:

Nemii can’t remember how long she has been there on the floor at the bottom of the bed. She doesn’t know how long she’s held it in her hands. The bleeding has slowed and there are no more cries.

The room looks different in the twilight; dusk casts shadows that Nemii didn’t see before. The carpet that once lay plush, soft enough to press your face into, is now sodden with thick crimson syrup. She tries to remember. The bed spread, a heavy quilt with pale rose patterns is now shredded and the curtains have been pulled down. She is cold. She moves quietly from the ground, crawling to the corner where, before the storm, there had been a giant rocking chair. She takes care to protect the thing in her arms, the thing she doesn’t recognise, and amongst the splinters, draws it into her arms and waits.

The eyes are watery and have lost their colour. It must have been a long time. They used to look back at her, two soft green pearls. Now they are grey as the skies and endless; they reveal nothing. The hands are cold. She runs her fingers over it; red fingertips draw circle patterns on the face.

She closes her eyes. Her mind swims in black and she remembers nothing. She opens them sharply and through the spots that cloud her thoughts she notices the crib, cowering overturned in the farthest corner. She sees the happy face of Pooh Bear on the side, smeared and scratched, and the bars that were made to protect have been clawed at; prised apart. Her hands hurt. The aching nails are bloody and ragged.

The streetlight outside flickers on and the room is flooded with an orange glow. She sees now. She remembers but doesn’t understand. She looks to the thing in her arms, the broken doll. “Rose.” She whispers. This is when the screams begin.