You walk to the mailbox, your feet crammed half heartedly into your trainers as you shuffle to retrieve the mail. You flick through the letters, a small twist in your gut as the familiar stamps and seals of various bills scream out to you. You stop towards the end.

There's one unlike the others, the address handwritten on the envelope. It can't be your birthday card, everyone just pings a messege over these days.

Slowly you go inside, sitting down and peeling it open and pulling out a small scrap of paper. There's bugs crawling on the walls. There's always bugs crawling on the walls. Or are they just scuffs? You always have to double check.

This is not who you are.

It wasn't signed, but you barely notice. This is probably a prank, throw it away. You turn up your music, dancing around in an attempt to shake away the nervousness the letter caused. You grab the bread, running on autopilot as you make yourself a sandwich. The butter curling as you pull the knife across makes you shiver. You try to wipe it across the bread, to carry on with your routine, when the music screeches to a halt.

Everything is melting. The walls, the withered plants, the purple cat. You don't even own a cat. Your old neighbour did though, back when-

No. That was just a dream. A bad dream. You shake your head, focusing on the bread. You've done this a thousand times before. You grab the strawberry preserve, then the ham. Wait, ham and strawberry? That's not right. You pull the ham off, the flesh bloddied by the fruit. It makes you feel sick.

The cat jumps infront of you then, grinning widely. It looks like the one from that film you saw as a child. You used to like him. Cheshire. You used to dream you could be him, to disappear in and out of life, especially when he came into your room, his face as red as the jam. Jam? Why did you put jam on the bread again? You're not even hungry.

You swipe it all into the bin, rinsing the stickiness from your hands. You're trembling, something doesn't feel right. You want to go home, but isn't this home? You look around the studio.

Yes, this was home now. That was your bed, still unmade and rumpled. The cat laid on it peacefully, grinning. It's teeth looked human. Teeth. Yes, brush your teeth.

You open the bathroom cupboard, where the showerhead hangs off it's hook and the grime across the tile makes you regret not cleaning yesterday when you had the energy. You just wanted to enjoy the time. It had been so long since you had a quiet day off, where you could just relax. You don't remember relaxing much though, you always have to keep moving. You have to do something, you can't just sit and be lazy. Once you sit down anyways there's never enough time to relax. You always manage to waste what precious time you have. But you wanted a little time. A time where you could finally do something without feeling exhausted. You shiver, the cat brushing across your ankles. You try to ignore it, squeezing the last last last pea sized smoosh of toothpaste onto the brush. You shove it into your mouth, feeling it bang against your teeth.

The cat is laughing at you. Stupid fucking cat. You push it, desperate to stop looking at it's stupid human teeth. The mirror cracks. Tiny little chunks of mirror reflecting the face you hate the most right back at you. The blood pouring down your hands like jam. Jam? Weren't you making a sandwich?

You don't have time now, you have work. They can't know about the cat, cats aren't allowed at work.

"Please stay here," you beg it.

You can't see the cat anymore, but you can hear it laughing at you.

"This isn't you. This isn't the life you were meant to live. Safe, happy free. You could never escape before, you could never get away. He was always in the doorway, he was always stronger. You could never swap places with me, and dissapear into the walls like you wanted to. Those yellow walls."

You groan, looking around your home, "The walls are white, not yellow."

"These walls were yellow, the walls you wanted to become. With little tiny ducks on the walls. You wanted to be the matress too, sinking until you were nothing more than iron and springs. He wouldn't hurt metal would he? You'd be stronger than metal. You remember that time in school, bending the metal. No one could do it because it was a solid. You're just a liquid, melting away,"

"No, no no. I'm not made of me-"

You look down, tiny metal springs and yellow flakes of wallapaer covering you as the skin underneath began to melt. Even your scars were gone, the red lines never washing off no matter how hard you-

There was a knock at the door. Do you open it?

"Do you open it?"

"Hello? Can you open the door please? We recieved a call."

"A call? Like a letter. Did you get a letter too?" You call out desperately. Maybe they can help.

You open the door, the man is there. He fills up the doorframe, towering over you. You fall to your knees screaming. He's dressed in green. He smiles at you sadly, but you can see his teeth. They look like cat's teeth.

"Leave me alone, you stupid cat," you scream.

His friend touches you, makng you shrink back.

"You're bleeding."

"No, it's jam. I was making jam and ham."

"Ok, well can I take a look at your hand. I still think you're hurt."

She seemed nicer. She was wearing burgandy clothes, like jam. Like blood. You like that colour.

The cat laughed loudly, "This is not who you are."

You trembled, crying, "Make him stop, please."

"Make who stop?"

"The cat. Didn't you hear him?"

The to shared a look, "We heard you."

You look down at the mirror shards. You're the purple cat.

June 22, 2020 09:37

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RBE | We made a writing app for you (photo) | 2023-02

We made a writing app for you

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