21st and Maple

A series of short stories about being abandoned all taking place in the same neighborhood.

I've been curled up like a cinnamon roll at the bottom of this trash can for too long. The aluminum walls of my home are dented from the many assaults by drunken college boys. I hate the Rattle, the Clang, the Smash of their Jordans against the rusted barriers, but all I can do is fold myself over many times until I vanish underneath the sticky apple cores and torn, soiled diapers. Just waiting for the return.

Once upon a time, I lived inside the House. I remember sleeping with my face pressed against the pillowy thighs of my Master. I  remember the smell of wet cat food wafting through the living room where I lay, sprawled out in front of the fireplace. I remember when they brought the naked, pink, shrieking thing home.

At first I was wary, cautious. I started hiding under the couch, claws extended to the point where it hurt, when the thing greedily suckled at Master's teat.

Then curiosity got the better of me. I crawled out from under the couch and stared the thing straight in its shiny, glazed eyes. I asked the thing why it had come and it replied with a bubble of breast milk from between its rose petal lips. I asked again, this time with my fangs protruding from beneath my whiskers. It started giggling and reached out its caterpillar-y fingers to grab my head.

I panicked and hissed loudly but it kept crawling. I backed up but the mahogany coffee table was in my way. So I used my last resort - I sank my claws into the thing's hand. The most guttural, primitive, deafening cry spilled from its mouth. Distorted, garbled words not yet perfected twisted with spittle and bile. A storm of pain and anger.

I widened my eyes and ran. Ran faster than I ever had before. Ran to my safe place.

Eventually the Masters found me, holding that demon in their arms and coddling it. Its hand was wrapped in bloody bandages. I didn't think I had done that much damage.

The Masters were speaking their language in a hushed, serious tone. They said things to me like they expected me to understand. To express my disinterest, I licked my paw pretentiously.

The next thing I knew, the doors were locked and I was outside, wood chips digging into my paws. I figured it was temporary and didn't take it seriously.

That was two months ago.

I know that the thing is different now - not as barbaric - and I have learned my lesson, but even when I scratch at the door and mewl, the lock doesn't move.

The End

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