A man walked into his kitchen, where his wife was dozing over a paper at the grubby table. “Honey?” he said quietly. She jerked awake, looking up at him sleepily. “Um... I think the cat’s... You know... Dead.”

                She screwed her eyes shut, then opened them again. “Ah,” she said, frowning.

                “You should probably tell the kids, Jane. You’re better at that kind of stuff than I am,” he added, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl and taking a bite.

                Jane sat up straight. “Why do you always leave the difficult stuff to me, Paul? You’re their father!” she said angrily.

                Paul grimaced. “Fine. I’ll tell them, but you know that they’ll just run to you anyway.” He sighed, and took another bite of apple. He swallowed his mouthful, and then yelled for the kids to come downstairs.

                His son entered the room with a grim look on his face, followed by his twin sister, who was holding a limp black cat in her hands. She looked at her father, confused. “Daddy, what’s wrong with Scratch?” she said. Paul sighed again.

                “Come here, baby,” he said. The little girl walked over to where he was standing, and he ruffled her hair. “Scratch has gone away to Kitty Heaven, kiddo.” Neither of the kids seemed to react to what he had just said.

                “He’s dead, then?” asked the boy calmly. Paul nodded. The boy walked over to his sister and whispered something to her. She nodded solemnly, then put the cat down on the ground and ran out of the room. Her brother followed.

                Jane raised an eyebrow. “They took that well, didn’t they?” she said, faint surprise in her voice. “I think Jared knew already, though. There was something in his face...” She looked out of the window at the drizzle. Paul grunted, chucked his apple core in the bin, and then kissed her on the cheek.

                “Gotta go to work, hon. See you later,” Paul said. She smiled weakly, and sat for a few moments longer. Her eyes were drawn to the dead cat. She knew that she should bury it before doing anything else, but the kitchen table needed a good scrub, and it was raining outside. She fetched a cloth, then paused. She put the cloth back, grumbling to herself, then ran out into the rain.

                Irrational, she thought. But I keep feeling like it’s watching me.

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Author guidance for This story

A solo one this time :)

updated Jul 9 '09 by Beccy95