Commitment Killed the Cat- Originally posted by mllejennifer

I hadn't noticed it until Thomas came to stay. It took me so long, it had become insidiously normal. Thankfully my neighbours came to my rescue. My routine disguised it at first; usually I would wake first and leisurely pad into the kitchen to make a single cup of tea. Dampening the clatters, I'd re-flick the kettle switch and sit by the open window, exposing myself to the emerging day and air out the night’s dreams while it flustered. After that, a steaming pot of tea would lead me knocking to his door; he would never respond but I'd go in anyway to watch him sleep until his tea turned cold. He would wake up slowly, like a snowdrop, and he would reach for me, mumbling something like 'You're still here...' and I would leave him to pour away the tepid water.But one morning last autumn someone opened the door while I was still sleeping and placed a hot cup by my bed. His eyes told me it was too early to be awake. ‘That damn noise,’ he said sinking onto my mattress in fatigue, face pink from rubbing. I turned from him and pricked my ears until finally I heard it. Thomas squinted to see if I was mocking him before confessing he'd heard it every morning he'd stayed since helping me move in three weeks ago. I'd ignored it so well I had blocked it from my mind but now it rang in my head like a tocsin. We cradled our cups of tea and yawned but the noise wouldn't stop and we couldn't sleep. We were both foul that day. Foul until we argued fiercely over how to make gravy until brown goo splattered the walls and we laughed so hard we doubled-up into our beds and slept 'til noon the next day.

It wasn't so strong when Thomas was gone and only a week later it had dulled to a furtive murmur. I arrived home late to a pile of crusty crockery and, too tired to turn on the light, I opened the window to let in the breezy moonlight and gently began to fill the sink with hot water andfoam. I quietly cleaned up the clutter, muffling clinks like I do when he's sleeping. Softly, a sound crept in. I leaned out of the window, holding my breath so that the vibrations of my heart did not disturb the air. Movement. A gentle golden undulation in time with the lowing. Suddenly the vision blurred and reappeared reversed, dark and oscillating so fast it seemed to no longer move. I grinned violently and bit my tongue but someone still noticed and, when all lay motionless, they closed the blinds.They were my only neighbours at the time. Newly graduated, newly married and newly poorer than they had ever been, the Stewards were the most apparational of neighbours. Occasionally I would slip into the assumption they were a conjuring trick of my own mind. Every glimpse of them was stolen, like the times I saw the tip of Mrs Steward’s glossy blond hair bob around the lounge in the evenings if I positioned my head just so. Mr Steward had a deep, throttling voice when he was angry but I put it down to the newly married thing – it isn’t natural for two bodies to blur together like that. Sometimes it scared me; as if the sound of passion alone could bring up bruises. During those times I wouldnursethe phone, imagining all sorts of horrors for her golden hair. But more often than not, girlish giggles would float up to my window and join with a deep, luxurious laugh and I would put the phone back in its place.

I was convinced they were flesh and blood only some weeks later. The build up over the week was oppressive.It started on Tuesday 6th October. I remember the date because that was the day my mother rang, we only speak about twice a year. She'd spent her life on me. She rang to tell me that my younger cousin Fred and his wife Janine were pregnant. She said it like that, as though they both had swollen bellies, cravings and loose muscles. I couldn't imagine Fred as a father. The conversation was short, I think I hurt her too much. That night I tried to use the moonlight to blot out the edge of accusation in her voice. In my apartment,in spite of the city, around midnight everything was hushed. If I closed my eyes, I could sit at the window and smoke my cigarette and create any surrounding I pleased, until the window became invisible and the stars were weightless. It's a kind of detox. Sleep would settle on me and eventually pull me away from my vigil and into dreamy slumber. I did not dream about Thomas.The morning after the phone call, the day I would meet the Stewards, screaming wrenched me from my dream-state for good. It was more than I could bear. I was disoriented, it was earlier than before. 5am, for god's sake. I sat, tea going cold, listening to the caterwauling. I wanted to cry.


A few hours later, the Stewards inadvertently upset my routine further. At that stage I was in the habit of checking the post every morning at 8:20, in case Thomas had sent a postcard or a small hand-carved totem or a photo of himself wearing a wide-brimmed hat and sun-burnt cheeks. Or perhaps, someday, of him wearing nothing at all. As my fingers hungrily explored the letter box, I looked up and caught them hesitating at the top of the stairs. I fixed them there with my stare until I blinked and the power was lost.‘Hi, I'm Diana, Di, from flat 23. I don't think we've met before.’He nods. ‘I'm Felix and this is my wife Cleo. It's nice to meet you, finally.' He shuffled his feet, hand jealously on his wife.'Well, we'd better be going...’I can visualise their faces, their bodies, at that moment. Felix looked bored, territorial. Cleo reactedasI did, wincing. It had begun again. It was embarrassing,mocking us,and I just stood there clutching a fistful of letters as Felix looped his arm around the goose-flesh of Cleo's back.‘Not again! That bloody noise! What the hell is it?’ Cleo said and narrowed her eyes. Felix looked surprised.‘What noise? I don’t hear anything.’We stared at him in disbelief. 'You must be able to hear that. It's like a wounded animal is trying to mimic the Tardis,’ I attempted, trying to laugh it off.‘Probably just a dog,’ asserted Felix, ‘Silly things yap at anything.’‘Well maybe that’s it, darling,’ she conceded tactically to her husband, stroking his arm.Darling? She turned to me, eyebrow raised in a way I couldn't decipher, ‘Isn’t there something about only some people being able to hear certain pitches?’As I went back to my flat, I noticed long deep scratches by their door post.




Enough. I have decided to go hunting. Amidst my neighbours’ lovemakingand the loss of my mother's voice, perhaps if I venture deeper into the building I will find it. I am bringing a wine bottle for protection, it's the only weapon I could find. There’s a narrow path of footprints leading from my apartment which unrolls along the corridor, down the stairs, reels in front of the Stewards’ door and unfurls down another flight of stairs before disappearing into the open. I ignore it. The bulbs on this floor are mostly dead and as I progress I encroach further upon the darkness. I wish I’d brought some string or stale bread.When I was younger I loved to go exploring with my torch at night; I’d startle hedgehogs or stumble into a thicket perfect for den-making. But I knew my mum was secretly by the window and if I waved my torch frantically she would suddenly appear beside me and take me home. Soon I will have to share this empty building, the corridors I haven't claimed will fill up with strangers. I am not a child any more. You can't compare a musty hall with the fresh darkness of a country garden. The air has been trapped here a long time and the hunt doesn’t seem so much fun. It’s about dedication now, and fortitude. I cannot help imagining the generations who have lived here, coupled here, fought here. Surrendered here.I feel an incredible sense of vertigo, as if I have fallen into the heart of the building, into the space the people left when they withdrew. It’s cold and damp and gloomy and I’ve lost track of how many stairs I’ve climbed and how many I’ve dropped down, how many were discoveries and how many false paths. All the while it has been humming in the walls, growing stronger and darker. Leander could not have felt bleaker that watery night. I am tempted to feel alone and despondent and run and run until I find my carefree little light above my door.

A firefly has just climbed out of a broken fitting and is buzzing comfort. I didn’t even know those existed here but it arcs around my head like a blessing. It gives me the confidence to look straight ahead and see the door.I already know what I will find so I open it quickly. There are a couple of poker tables laid out with stacks of chips and cards, with various drinks dotted around. At the far end, a monstrous house dealer stands facing away from the table. She is too tall for the room but bears herself as nobly as the dank room allows. Her casino jacket has a huge roulette wheel affixed to the back which spins slowly round. She is casually flicking cards into place with uncanny expertise and I imagine few gamblers manage to cheat her. She does not turn around, she knew I was coming.But my quarrel is not with her. Mewing impossibly noisily, a cat of sphinx-like proportions sits at the first table, sizing me up. It is hairless and wrinkled except for the tail, which is long and plush and coils around the chair seductively. The torso is rather long and the head is humanoid except for the eyes and the ears. The eyes are fixed on a screen showing endless repeats and the floor is scattered with empty greasy cartons. Between its legs there is a small, limp phallus that is distorted by the weight of two slack balls. The head and the paws are encased by birdcages from which long claws escape and scratch incessantly along the same crimson lines on its belly so that blood and pus seep from its wounds. It swipes at a drink and knocks it into the air, spraying the liquid through the bars of its head-cage. It sits and licks drops off the grill while shards of glass litter the poker table and floor. The roulette wheel on the house dealer’s back is now spinning violently and I throw myself upon this grotesque cat, bottle forgotten. Limbs are flailing against limbs and the cages are clanging against my head but I am relentless.I crush the cages under my feet and crack its claws to use as my lance.I am valiant. I reach into the cavity where there is no heart and twist.We are ardent.

As I drag the body down the corridor, my own wounds disappearing into the carpet, I notice the firefly ahead of me and I follow her to a stairwell that is flooded with light from a window in the roof many floors above. I’ve been resisting the urge to look back but with the light so near I can’t help it. I turn but there’s nothing there. I am already bathed in the warm sunlight and in this fashion I make my way through the labyrinth and arrive at my carefree little door where I dump the stunned carcass.I'm performing a little ceremony to celebrate. I'm using empty cans as gourds and corks for beads and my feet are tracing the old steps, the old dance I didn't realise was in me, the one most don't bother with any more. My heart, my liver, my brain are throbbing with childish delight that I can't wait to share. I prop up Tom’s cards so he can watch and I see them flicker when finally I throw open my window and cast the wretched thing into the air where it lingers a while before dissipating. Even the moon, hidden behind sunlight, gives her approval. I phone Tom and we chatter away and then he pauses to say 'You're still here...' 'Yes, I'm here,' and I hear him smile.