The cat, with its accusing eyes and stares.
The cat that sat on his chest, its claws that always slightly dug in, but seeming now to be going in deeper than ever.
Rather
than a friendly, comforting reassurance of normality, he felt now that
they were a part of that stare, an attempt by the cat to control or
dictate his next action.
It
had started with the murder, continued with the lie, the inability to
concentrate at work, the dropping of his lunch, the missing of his train
stop and the long walk home forgetting to buy the ingredients for
dinner but would end with the cat.
That
growing confusion within him would have to spill out with a confession.
He would have to tell his wife it was he and not the cat that had
murdered her favourite sweater.
The
one that was hell to hug, itchy and scratchy to him but comforting and
warm to her. He didn’t like the pattern or the colour either. That
morning he finally decided he had had enough and killed it. Partially
buried it in a cat litter shallow grave. Before getting a slow burning
case of the Jiminy Crickets.
And
so it wasn't just the murder, he decided. Everything else seemed to
have conspired to ruin his day as well. Even the cat. But especially
his conscience.
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