novembre ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- the five theories of bubbles the cat she looks at her cat watching her, his perfectly round eyes shining in the dark. he stares at her without moving for minutes on end. a tiny orange statuette. it looks as if he is getting younger. when he first came to her, he was bigger, bulkier. he threads his lean body between her legs, brushing her skin with his tail as if drawing on her. after a few seconds, he reaches down and bites. her foot shoots up out of instinct, starting him back. he lunges again, higher up, claw to shin. the same dance. she doesn't undestand why he does this. she's got theories, but nothing confirmed because they can't communicate. she can imitate his sounds but that's about it. he stares at her, again, at her eyes. she nestles into her bedding, pulling it up around her body, protecting her from him. theory one: he was a housecat for the first few years of his life. when his family moved away, they left him behind. now he is suffering from an identity crisis, unable to mesh his house- and alley cat personalities. she calls him to her, meowing in a pitch she assumes conveys longing. he sits on her stomach and thrusts his forehead into her palms. he purrs. theory two: he was abused by a child who didn't know any better. this child would infuse battery in with her love and mix his reactions up. he is so demanding. almost human. her strange, pissed off child. theory three: he was feral. feral cats have long histories with space and attachment issues. his purring slows and cat-snoring replaces it. she reads her book, careful to keep her arms from knocking into him. theory four: he is psychotic. a psychotic cat. her left arm grazes his forehead, a light stroke against the direction of his fur. his round eyes semi-circle, and then open completely, staring at her arm. she knows she is in trouble when he doesn't meet her eyes. his paws reach and pull her arm to his face. he sinks his teeth into the belly of her forearm, slowly, glancing up at her eyes. she says evenly, "please don't, baby." he bites harder. "please don't." she gently pulls her arm away from his grip, the fastened grip of a small taloned child. his ears curl backwards, his nails draw deep into her arm. she runs into the bathroom, shrieking "why did you hurt me i don't know why you hurt me i love you don't you love me why do you hurt me?" while running water over the red lines on her pink arm, babbling and thinking how unhuman her arm, her skin looks like at the same time. little bits, peeled off by nail, curl at the end of some of the cuts. she sits on the bathmat, picking them off, babbling. five minutes later, she has still not finished crying. she knows her voice is too loud, it is two in the morning, she can't stop. she hasn't cried this long in years. inbetween breaths and high-pitched squeaks, she talks to him, asks him questions, tells him that this is the last straw. she walks out of the bathroom and does not see him. she holds the door open and pauses, no movement. after a while, she walks outside and shuts the door before opening it again. he is there,stares at her. "just get out." theory five: he hates to mean that much to me. they walk outside. she sits on the porch and lights a cigarette. he smells the air and picks each step before taking it, walking out of the yard. her landlord's window opens above her, but no lights go on. across the street, someone opens the door to a van. quietly, quietly. 1:56 pm - 7.9.01 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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