Content warning: this creeped me out writing it, a little bit.
Day 8 of 30 days of Fiction: “8) Write a scene as a cat”
I wake up when the bright warmth moves off of me, roll over, lick my belly a few times, and move into the bright warmth again, one arm over my face.
For a moment, in the sleepy place that isn’t quite awareness, everything feels strange and wrong. I know that the tail lashing just out of the light should not be there. I know that the fingers on my hand, that the claws on my paw… that they are wrong. Short and stubby and sharp. I know that I used to be different.
Then the warmth urges me back into sleep. I sleep a lot more, now. It gets harder and harder to hold thoughts in my mind for any length of … oh, a dust mote. My eyes open wide and I bat at the ghost swirling in the brightness. It’s taunting me, slipping through my claws like it’s not there. But I can feel it, just at the edges… there! I pounce it to the ground, pin in there, one claw through a gossamer wing.
I swallow it in three quick gulps, leaving a tiny foot to remind myself. While its thin non-substance is in me, I can think. I can focus again. I sit upright, cross-legged – the master stopped observing me regularly weeks ago – and focus.
I can’t read anymore. My eyes can’t track the characters, and whatever he did to my brain makes focusing that fine impossible. The lack of thumbs makes writing nearly impossible, even if I could see the letters. Even if I had paper and pencil. Nor can I speak. But I can, for a few minutes a day, remember. Remember what it’s like to be human.
The thought escapes me again, and I lick my chops, nose at the tiny foot bone, and make my way down to the sandbox.
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