Feline Fatale

I awoke dazed, a puddle of blood haloed around my head. Vision was becoming a problem, despite my eyes being wide open. Not that there was much to see. I was on my side, a wobbling image of the speckled oak table leg the only thing in sight. Hearing wasn’t much better either; the sound of blood frantically pumping in my ears was almost deafening. As my consciousness slowly recovered I became more aware of the pain I was in. I winced at the cat’s scratch marks on my legs. This mild annoyance was instantly scattered by the rising, thumping agony from my head. I cringed in distress, bringing my hand instinctively to the point of pain. There was a lot of blood.

My eyes darted about the room. Being unable to move my head without slipping into darkness greatly restricted my view. I could tell from the tea stained yellow wallpaper and dusty wooden floorboards that I was in my living room. The disgusting decor briefly distracted me, before I reminded myself of my predicament. At that moment, a distant ‘meow’ interrupted the beat on my ear drums. The cat. I could feel it brush past me as it casually made its way up towards my head. It treaded cautiously, paws imprinting in the thick blood. I half expected it to burst into an evil monologue. I tried to voice a gruffled “shoo”, but all I could muster was a feeble groan.

I need help. I really need help.

It took every drop of energy to move. I started with my arms – right, then left – and then moved on to my trembling legs. Having shifted onto my back I argued to myself that it was perhaps a less desirable position than the one I was in before which, thinking about it, near-enough resembled the recovery position. I looked down at the ‘hip’ torn jeans and the numerous thin red lines etched in my bare skin, and sighed. How did she convince me to wear those stupid jeans? I look like a dad trying to be cool in front of his kids. I took a few deep breaths, re-grasped my trail of thought and ran through the plan to myself:

Phone.
Ambulance.
Live.

Simple. I placed my hand down, shifted my weight gently onto it and collapsed at the discovery of yet another injury. The raw red burn on my palm stung angrily at my decision to survive.

How did all this happen?

Using my elbow this time I pushed with all my might against the complaining floorboards, eventually manoeuvring myself onto my knees. I glanced over at the cat, now busy lapping at some spilt liquid on the floor. There was broken china everywhere, the only recognisable piece being a small tea-cup handle. The cat looked up for a moment and smiled – I swear it smiled. Was it mocking me, laughing at my struggles? I got a hold of myself and concentrated on getting the phone. The “retro-style”, putridly pale green telephone. Why did I let her choose everything in the house? I tried to steady myself, hands slipping, struggling to get a grip on the already blood-soaked table edge. I paused to breathe, my heart stampeding as the hurried pumping in my ears accelerated.

I caught a glimpse of the ring on my finger as I tried to read the time on my frozen watch. Was I meant to have picked her up by know? Should I call her and let her know? No, I thought, suddenly focussed, call an ambulance, get help. I stretched out my wavering arm towards the phone, a creaking from upstairs gave the illusion that it was actually tearing. Further and further it reached, edging closer until it was almost unbearably near. A finger linked around one of the cable’s curls and I dragged it victoriously back towards me. Phone clenched between shoulder and ear, I tugged at the cord to pull the rest of the phone nearer. 9 – 9 – 8, I typed, frustratingly slowly. Cursing my shaking hand I hung up and tried again; 9 – 9 – 8 – Fuck! I finally managed to punch in the right numbers then listened intently, ignoring the edging darkness. I pressed my ear gently against the receiver, then let it fall to the floor with a clatter.

No dial tone.

Of course. Now I remembered. The phone cable had broken days ago, severed in two. We’d assumed it was rats at the time, or just shoddy workmanship from the bastards who built the thing. The gravity of the situation crippled me. I slumped to the ground in a mush of defeat, motionless other than the rise and fall of my chest. A momentary flicker of hope was extinguished, remembering my mobile was upstairs. Sinking impossibly further to the floor, my eyes drifted from the paw prints in the blood, to the cat’s stupid intrigued stare. I smiled.

It all began to make sense.

The scratch marks, the severed phone cable, the mocking grin. It was the cat. I could see it all now – cat poising patiently under the table as it waits to pounce at my legs. I fall to the floor, hitting my head on the corner of the table. The telephone line is disconnected, no way of getting help. It was simply a matter of waiting it out, waiting for me to die.

Was that a memory or simply a thought, an idea? Who could tell at this stage? Did my cat kill me? Then it dawned on me. These are my dying thoughts; my final memory of the life I was about to leave. The disappointment of this realisation weighed me down. Or was that the lack of blood? Why couldn’t I have thought of something meaningful, something profound? I tried desperately to conjure an image, any image other than that of my murderous cat. Nothing. I felt my consciousness fading back to darkness as the faint evanescence of hurried footsteps echoed from upstairs...