Me

Me. They have come. Again. To see… me. Some wearing rags. Some wearing crowns. Accessorised as ever will they be, all of them.

Because of me.

They would be sufferable if they were to remain silent. But they rarely do. Supplicating for… something.

Blah blah whoever needs… whatever.

Please, they plead. And so mote it be. Want want want. It’s only ever about them. And their want.

I have heard told that a narcissist is one who only ever thinks of themselves instead of me.

And daily, I am reminded of this.

Peasants.

For years I have graced this temple. And in that time, attendance has only ever grown. They come in droves. Ceaselessly.

Due to me.

I do not care what they want. And I don’t care what they say.

Yet they beseech. Persistently. To me.

They do not understand that I cannot give them what they ask for. Nor would if I could.

Cumbersome. My burden. My crook to bear. As it were.

I want.

And I get.

This is the way of things.

They call me Tivali. Gift of God. Fitting. But that is not my name.

Some of them approach me. Enchanted, as they are, by my loveliness. Intoxicated with my alluration.

A hand reaches. I move away.

Toyingly.

They like it.

Taunting.

I never let them touch me.

No.

Perish the thought.

It is I that brush them. With my sleek coat, and occasionally, my tail.

But, as with all things, alas, I tire. Their expressions of disappointment at my departure fill me with such… magnificentia.

It’s Latin.

It means… grandiosity.

You’re welcome.

There are the others who frequent this temple. When the peasants have gone. I hear them moving about, although I rarely see them from my plush-pillowed plinth of repose. I only observe that which they have done.

Cleaning. Tidying. Cool water. Fish. Fresh, of course. Pulled from the river that day.

The way of things.

Such are my days. It’s repetitive, but I don’t like surprises.

Infrequently, on the rarest of occasions, something unanticipated will happen.

Such as the time I caught a rather unobservant spiny mouse. It was around midnight. My temple was still. The fish had gone hours before. And I had again become hungry.

It was if Isis herself had heard my thoughts. Perhaps there is something in this supplicating.

I was dozing, just drifting off, when it touched me without warning.

I don’t like surprises. I was displeased. Claws drawn and rage in my heart.

It was a distraction. The mouse. I had my supper. Satiated.

It was a most enjoyable three hours.

Then there was the time the cabinet was left open. A large wooden cabinet. Ornately crafted. Placed in the outer ambulatory, just a few steps from my plinth. When they brought it in, for me to inspect, I had shown my approval by adding claw marks down three of its legs. The fourth one I do not like. It smells. The addition of my precisely placed scratchings greatly enhanced its overall beauty.

The cabinet is normally opened only briefly, by the ones I do not normally see. When I am elsewhere. Distracted. Dealing with other matters. More important matters. But one day, it was left open. The door ajar. Unattended. I was ecstatic. I was wary. Cautious. Curious. Investigative. Determined.

Unstoppable.

I crept towards it. Paused, listening for footfalls. There were none. I stepped. Silently. I drew nearer, within a whisker’s length. Pause. Sat. Groomed. Waiting unwatchingly for the shhh shhh shhh of the one who had only just realised how stealthy I can be.

There was no one.

Save for me.

First a nose. Then a face. And that was it. I was in. And what wonders my cabinet contained.

Roll upon roll of papyrus. Neatly stacked. Bound with string. Beautiful. String. It may have been red. It may have been blue. I don’t care.

How many pieces in total I cannot recall. After all the time that has come and gone since, I am still in possession, prized possession, of a single piece of the string I had wrenched from one of the scrolls that day. That glorious day.

And I still have it. Here. In my temple.

Somewhere.

Needless to elucidate, the wrenching gave way to shredding which gave way to blind frenzy and it was the grating sound of my scythe-like claws deftly maiming the sheets of dried pith that gave the game away.

My decision to swiftly vacate the temple for the following few days had nothing to do with unseen ones’ shouting. Or their chasing. Sweeping brushes waving above their heads. In exaltation, of course. Ridiculous. It was my Devine Prerogative. To venture out amongst the commoners. My choice.

And mine alone.

The streets of Waset, I must say, I found… curious. People. Everywhere. Toing and froing as they were. Enthralling to watch.

It was late in the day, Ra’s barque resting on the horizon. The people seemed to be tidying, much as the unseen ones had in my temple. They were packing items away and travelling to places unknown. All of them performed these acts furiously until there were none. And I was alone. As darkness fell.

Alone.

The most unexpected sounds I heard that night. But I wasn’t afraid. I found a discarded basket, the soiled lid resting at its side. My shelter for the night. I longed for my plinth.

That night, I didn’t sleep. But it wasn’t because I was afraid.

The following morning, they were at it again. Toing and froing. Countless multitudes.

I stretched. I yawned. I went forth from my basket and greeted the living.

It was on this day that I encountered the girl.

The small girl.

She was young. She was enchanting. She was beautiful.

She reminded me of me.

On the first encounter, she smiled. On the second, she sang. On the third, she brought food.

Boiled fish. It was beautiful.

After eating, she sat at my side and stroked my fur.

I captivated her with my purr.

The next day, she brought more fish and a small bowl of milk.

I sat on her knee.

She brought her face close to mine.

The nuzzle was nice. She seemed to enjoy it. Our eyes closed in mutual adoration.

Mutually adoring me, that is.

But her hand suddenly touching my tail without warning surprised me.

And I don’t like surprises.

Do I?

I conveyed my displeasure in the only way I know how.

Poor thing. I’m sure she’ll heal.

I haven’t seen her since. And more poignantly, she hasn’t seen me.

I returned that day to my temple. By then, all had been forgiven. In my absence, the unseen ones had repented.

And I had absolved them.

All was as it was.

A horrible phrase. But accurate.

I have just thought of a few other instances where events have strayed from the norm but quite honestly, I tire of this monologue.

Catalogue.

I shall, however, ne’er forget my sojourn, my time on the streets. I have lost count of the days since then it has been.

In all actuality, however, and given the choice, I prefer infinitely the solace of my temple.

Fresh fish brought from the river. The occasional mouse. Cool, refreshing water as I want.

But every now and again. When the urge strikes. And a sentimental reminiscence descends upon my spirit. I will spare a thought.

To the milk.

But not often. Not every day. Nor even every week.

And now, on I go. On to other matters. More pressing matters. And my plush-pillowed plinth.

In closing, and to be most truthful, I have reconsidered and am decided that there is actually a part of me that cares. And I am convinced now, having thought about it extensively, that, in fact, the string was, most definitely, blue.

The End

You’re welcome.