It was a breezy Sunday morning when it happened. The sun shone through the windows in a bathing light. A bed in the back corner of an upstairs bedroom sat bathed in this light, but no one was sleeping in it. In fact the person who usually slept in it was sleeping outside on the back porch on a lounge couch. Their head was covered in thick blankets and their head lay on their favorite pillow. It was made of goose feathers; one of those old fashion ones that no one makes anymore.
The sleeping person awoke to the sound of Marge’s complaining about all the lights being on again. They yawned and stretched and let the sun warm their feet and bones. Then they drew their blankets off and got out of the couch. They collected their things and walked back into the house through the back screen door. They dragged their feet along the cheap linoleum and walked to the stairs. They made their way up the stairs all the while ignoring Marge yelling at the bonehead from at the bottom of the stairs. They let out another yawn and when they got to their room, walked in and threw their stuff on the bed.
This was the routine of these people. The child preferred to sleep outside rather than inside not because of Marge and the bonehead’s fighting, but because the old grump likes to keep the house freezing cold, especially at night. It tended to be warmer outside than inside which in itself was quite strange.
‘Now to find something to wear,’ mused the child.
They walked through the room passed the mountain of boxes of random items all with various labels. One of the huge boxes prevented them from getting to their closet, not that they needed to get to the closet. The child bent over and plucked pants and a shirt out of the mess of clothing in the laundry basket.
A mewing sound came out of the only opening in the closet. Letting out a huge sigh, they struggled to open the old fashioned closet doors (they were the old handmade sliding on a rusty track kind). When they finally opened the door, a fur ball came rushing out. This fur ball was picky and had a thing for sleeping in the child’s closet. The rest of the house was cold and the fur ball liked it warm and dark. The fur ball walked in between the boxes with ease. The child grumbled at that. More mewing symbolized that the fur ball wanted breakfast.
The child quickly dressed and caught up the best they could to the fur ball. The fur ball was already downstairs waiting at their bowel for food. The child grabbed the bugger’s food and gave it to them. The fur ball gobbled it up.
“Oh, good you fed MewMew. That poor thing would starve if it was left up to that man,” Marge said.
“I heard that,” the bonehead said from upstairs.
Marge and the child chuckled. If the bonehead inherited anything from his mother, it was her selective hearing.
“I always feed the fur ball. She is mine,” the child added.
“True and don’t call MewMew a fur ball, its rude,” Marge lectured.
“Yeah, I know,” the child replied dryly.
Then finally the bonehead made his way down the steps and appeared in the kitchen looking like he always does, dressed in his business polo shirts and blue jeans. He never wears anything different. The child and Marge thought the man had no style at all. Marge only ever bought the man polo shirts and jeans. He didn’t seem to like anything else.
“So, what are we having for breakfast, Marge,” the bonehead asked.
“I don’t know, I’ll check,” Marge replied absently.
“Oi,” the child and bonehead said at the same time.
Marge then walked over to the freezer. She opened it and stuff came flailing out. Multiple freezer items fell like a sack of potatoes. Marge groaned and began to pick up stuff. Marge tended to stuff everything in and it tended to resemble a frozen item mine field. Every time someone opens the freezer (and sometimes the refrigerator did it too) stuff would come tumbling out. The bonehead and the child constantly tried to tell Marge not shove everything in the freezer, but she never listens.
The rest of the day seemed to be going well. They all went to church and came home, ate lunch, and then went their separate ways.
By the time dinner rolled around, the child thought it had been an ordinary day. That is until Marge started chopping vegetables.
The child was reading Moby Dick when they heard sounds coming from the kitchen. They knew it was the kitchen from the clanging noise. Then she watched MewMew rush into their bedroom and into the closet.
‘That’s strange,’ mused the child.
They decided to see what was happening. They barely made it to the kitchen before it happened. They were suddenly struck with a chef knife to the throat. They grabbed their neck and tried to stop the bleeding, but blood oozed out.
Then everything went black.
When the police arrived, they found Marge lying dead on the floor with slashes to their wrists and holding the knife. The bonehead was lying near them with a pool of blood next to a big gash in their stomach.
“Exsanguination barely took minutes,” said the coroner to the Detective in charge.
What the cops didn’t find was the body of neither the child nor MewMew. The child was gone and so was their stuff. Both the closet and room had been cleaned out. MewMew’s bowl was gone along with her food and the animal herself. The animal carrier was missing from the garage and so were some supplies. The child’s bedroom was so clean it didn’t look lived in. The family portraits were all gone except one wedding photo from the north wall of the living room.
The case remained unsolved.