Writing Prompt: Pets
Marion’s apartment was quaint. Or at least that’s what her daughter had called it when she visited, but that’s been years ago now. But it was home to her. It was a place she had carefully chosen each trinket or piece of furniture to be to her liking.
Nothing out of the ordinary happened in her home, and Marion liked it that way. She disliked surprises and spontaneity. She liked order and routine, which is why it was so against her nature when she happened by a cat in a box on the street and decided to take it home.
His orange fur had been covered in grime from being cast out on the street. He hadn’t been starving, but he was looking a bit worse for wear. Benedict, as she came to call him, hadn’t run from her when she reached down to pick him up. He had let her take him into her arms and carry him away.
First, she had taken him to the vet. They ran tests and found out he had pneumonia and needed one of his eyes removed. Furthermore, they detected a heart murmur and a few other debilitating issues. Marion paid for his treatments and resigned herself to care for this lost cat until he passed.
That was 6 years ago.
Six years ago, she thought she was signing up for (at most) a 6-month stint of caring for a subdued old cat as he spent his last days in comfort. He must have seen she was lonely, but at this point, she had other theories.
First theory, and the most likely, is that Benedict was a bitter Tabby who wanted nothing more than to torture those around him. There wasn’t a moment that Benedict wasn’t harassing Marion, getting into food, spreading dirt from the plants into her freshly cleaned rugs, or throwing up hairballs right on top of her pillow. Occasionally, he would take it to another level and pee in her shoes by the door.
She once thought she could outsmart him and put them in the closet, but sometime in the night, Benedict had figured out how to open the closet door.
“I SAVED YOU!” She’d shout in his general direction and she washed her shoes out for the hundredth time.
But Benedict would look at her with his unamused eyes and lick his paws.
Marion had discussed Benedict’s behaviors at length to experts, his vet, and her neighbors; none of which could provide her with a better theory than Benedict was just an asshole cat. She was sure he was Satan reincarnate sent here to torture her in her remaining years.
He was at least 21 at this point and showed no signs of leaving this world before she did. Marion reasoned that hatred had been the only thing keeping him alive at this point.
It seemed so fitting that one Sunday morning Marion awoke to silence in her apartment. For a moment, it felt calm in the house, but then she thought of Benedict. He was never silent. Never calm. She slowly emerged from the bedroom expecting the worst.
“Benny?” She called out.
Marion walked throughout the house looking for him and found him curled up unmoving on the couch.
She picked him up, and he went limp. Her heart sank.
Marion wrapped him in a towel and got dressed to head to the vet. As she slipped her shoes on, the moisture instantly soaked her socks.
“You wretched cat!” She exclaimed. He had died doing what he loved, torturing her.
Escaping the real world by writing worlds of my own.