Spotlight brighter then blood

She saw a black cat.

Her arms were outstretched whenever she moved, and her fingers spread like tree branches. Her large head remained still. Only her knees bent as she walked. Her unerring, straight-line movement required pausing on the thick layer of fallen leaves for every turn.

The wind would occasionally blow her curly blue strands into her eyes. She would blink. And through those thin lines in her vision, she continued following the black, raised tail. She would repeat – kitty.

She tripped over her heel and fell on the damp, autumn leaves. She leaned on her knees, looking down at her palms, then rubbed them to clean them off, just as everyone had told her to do. She looked up.

The black cat was waiting. Their gazes met.

"Kitty" – she repeated, standing up to run toward the cat. Its tail like a signal transmitter was moving, again.

They entered the forest.

She was slowing down.

Whenever that happened, the cat would stop and wait—or sometimes approach her just close enough to encourage her to keep following.

The pom-pom on her winter hat kept bouncing.

The forest grew denser, the trees thicker. Darkness set in, damp and cool.

She was getting tired. Breathing deeply, her cheeks turned red.

The cat stopped again, observing the little girl patiently. Then, noticing it had to come back for her, it approached, allowing her to pet it.

The soft fur and cat’s skeletal frame beneath her small palms suddenly pulled away and started off somewhere. The girl ran again, reaching her hand out toward the cat. The crackling of fire echoed softly, voices in the breeze.

The black cat and the girl ran out into an area of moist black soil illuminated by a large bonfire. A circle framed by large trees appeared in the forest like a bald patch. The sky and stars looked like pinpricks, receding from the skull-colored full moon.

Women, wearing only their hair as clothing, were silhouetted against the bonfire, shouting and laughing wildly. They flew, hands raised toward the moon.

It seemed as if someone was tossing gunpowder into the flames, causing it to rise, then calm. Brooms formed a circle that climbed above the heads of the flying women, who squealed with delight.

The flames rose again, revealing blood-stained hands reaching toward the sky, twisting in what seemed like a ritualistic dance.

The girl followed the cat as it approached a dead goat with a slashed throat and gutted belly.

It licked the blood.

----

In the house near the forest, the father sat with a laptop on his lap, watching an NBA recap.

He would put his beer bottle on his lips, savoring the bitter taste that grew stronger with each sip. He had a habit of tapping his wedding ring with his thumbnail. Looking at the reflection of the lights.

His focus was waning, and he was no longer following the highlights of the games. Random, fragmented thoughts crossed his mind, unfinished and without significance. His thoughts drifted from childhood memories to frustrated musings about his torn socks, which he could never quite bring himself to throw away.

He began clucking his tongue against his aching tooth when his wife entered the living room, resting her loose arms on her hips – "Where's Lilly?"

He started, staring at his wife, whose greasy hair was tied back in a messy ponytail – "I thought she was with you."

"What?" she squeezed out the word like a lemon.

He repeated, dumbfounded, then looked toward the slightly open terrace doors.

"I dressed her and sent her to you because you were supposed to take her outside," the mother continued, pressing him.

He pushed the laptop off his lap onto the couch, left the beer bottle, and moved toward the door.

"Don't, don't, please" – her voice cracking like nuts – "don’t tell me she went outside."

They hurried through the terrace doors and stepped out into the unfenced yard. Beyond a few dozen steps, the forest stretched out on all sides. The ring around their house was broken only by the driveway from the mountain road, which led deep into the hills.

They called out to her.

Night falls early here, especially at this time of year.

The moon, cold as sacramental bread, seeped into their bodies.

"How could you" and "Why did you bring us to live here" were a few phrases the mother uttered in panic as they searched for their child. Her body was on the edge of convulsions. They ran through the forest, their hearts swelling like water-filled balloons.

"Lilypad! Lilypad!"

Moisture settled on their skin, mixing with the cold sweat seeping from their pores, while only hot, sour sweat seeped under their arms.

The father followed a trail in the leaves. The mother's thoughts drifted into self-destructive anger, repeating – I can’t bear it. They paused for a moment; everything was as quiet as if vacuum-sealed. There was no wind. The world held its breath.

A wolf's howl pierced the silence.

The mother's sob broke through like a nail.

A drop of sweat ran down the father’s neck, where his artery throbbed. He looked in the direction of the sound.

Then he continued following the trail, breathing short, shallow breaths, feeling the hot adrenaline pulse through his legs. Occasionally, he feared his legs might give out, yet they felt more alive and stronger than during his morning jogs.

His ears pricked up – another howl, from the other side.

Don’t, don’t think about it now, that’s in the distance, he thought; she, she’s here, those are her tracks, follow the tracks, go, she’s here

– her hat.

A winter hat with a plush pom-pom.

"Oh my god, is that blood?" he wondered.

"Those are blood stains," the mother screamed, grabbing her hair and starting to pull. She turned away from the hat. Tears burst forth. Her face twisted into a grotesque, red grimace. She started sobbing.

The father’s sense of hearing faded. He felt every part of his skin turn into static.

He stood up – "It’s not over," he said – "it’s not over."

He ran through the leaves, now unsure of the direction or the trail, just going. He held the hat in his hands, oblivious to whether his wife followed or not.

She followed him, weeping, unable to speak. She followed automatically.

With every breath, steam puffed from their mouths. They were about to

– her little shoes.

Though they were atheists, they muttered – "Oh my God, oh my God."

They reached for each other, holding tight. The mother cried into the father's chest. The father rested his chin on her head and shed a tear. His chin was damp from the air, meeting the wetness from his nose.

A wolf's howl.

The mother pushed him away, striking his chest.

He looked at her. And after one dreadful moment, when the objective sense of time collapsed, he said – "It’s not over." He picked up her little shoes and ran.

Every step became more erratic.

It seemed only their clothing moved. Wet.

Their panting grew louder and deeper.

Finally, they emerged where the large fire still burned quietly. Her little jacket. A dead goat, dressed in that jacket, seated upright. The flames cast shadows across the dead head and horns. Its forelegs hung unnaturally from the short yellow sleeves. A cat sat in its lap, licking its paws.

The scream seemed to tear the sky.

The mother fell forward, scratching her face.

Then laughter grew. Shrill screams. The jeers of naked women began flying around the fire, pointing bloody fingers at the parents. Mocking them.

The father thought they were tossing around a doll.

"Is that my Lilly?" he wondered, feeling as though his heartbeat line flattened.

He dropped to his knees. He looked into the vacant eyes of the goat wearing his little girl’s jacket, its tongue hanging out. "What have I done?" the father asked, "What have I done?"

The mother doubled over, clutching her stomach as if someone had ripped out her womb.

The witches mocked them with sounds that formed a tragic fugue. Brooms flew everywhere. The father began to scream as well.

At that moment, a small body fell in front of him. He lunged like a dog, clawing at the damp earth full of twigs.

He grabbed her in his arms.

It didn’t look like a doll, it was a doll, he thought.

"Oh, my sweet little Lilly, give her to me, please, give her to me," the mother wailed, and suddenly bright lights lit up all around them.

Spotlights hanging from the treetops assaulted their eyes.

"Zoom in on their faces, I want a close-up," a male voice said.

The father’s eyes adjusted, and he saw women with bloody hands tied to thin black ropes, slowly descending. A red-haired woman in her twenties turned to a brown-haired one also in her twenties, saying, "You were amazing with those screams, seriously amazing." They smiled, while others sighed in boredom and fatigue. The father didn’t blink.

The mother took the doll from his arms, tugging his shoulder, asking – "What’s wrong with her, what is this, what’s wrong with her, what is this?"

The black cat softly jumped off the wooden armchair. Two men with earpieces lifted the dead goat, which turned out to be a doll as well. In its place, a man in a shiny suit with red lapels, a black shirt, and a red tie took a seat. His smile was as intense as the flames behind him. “As you can see, ladies and gentlemen, our viewers, this is the price you might pay for being irresponsible parents. This Halloween special was particularly enjoyable. At least, for me,” he sneered. “Let’s have a chat with the unfortunate parents.”

He stood up, and the cameraman approached him, moving around and following him as he walked with a measured, choreographed step toward the mother and father who sat on the ground.

The mother kept repeating, “What is this?”

“I’m about to tell you,” said the slick man, acting as a host, even though the question hadn’t been directed at him. The mother continued to touch the doll.

“See, you two are part of our show, Lost Angels, which is based on a completely legal process where we remove children from parents who don’t deserve or shouldn’t have children. Unfortunately for you, and fortunately for us, you met enough of the criteria for your little Lilly to become the child of a better home. We noticed a lack of communication between you two and found that your child could have disappeared right from under your nose at least four times. And three, well, three times is more than—” he paused, spreading his arms and raising his voice, “ENOUGH!” He spun around as if addressing a stadium full of spectators. The sound of applause and cheering played in the background.

“Your wife is irreversibly depressed,” he continued in a regular commentator’s voice, “and you’re a workaholic, an alcoholic…”

The father tried to say he only drank two beers a week.

“…an untreated ADHD sufferer!”

“But, but…we’re not sick,” the father tried quietly.

“Excuse me?” The host leaned in, theatrically cupping his ear. “Not sick? Ha! Our experts pointed out every issue. It’s terrifying that someone like you even thinks of having a child! Can’t you see what could have happened to your child?”

“What could have happened to our child,” the mother cut in. “You…you did this!” She lunged to hit him, but the two men who had moved the goat grabbed her by the armpits and pulled her away. Her feet dragged along the ground, kicking as she tried to free herself.

The father remained motionless, like a statue.

“Understand this!” the host shouted. “You’re not good parents. Lilypad could have died in excruciating pain! Shame on you! And you still try to deny our crusade against the worst people! People who destroy little angels! Without people like you, the world would be normal. People would be good. There’d be no violence! Your ignorance, your denial, your neglect—that’s what’s polluted this world. The entire history of human violence lies in bad parenting. That’s anthropological truth! You, as inadequate beings of modern times, you who don’t seek help, who don’t care, who just can’t ‘keep up’”—he added mockingly—“you are the problem with our world, and it’s time to pay the price! You always talk about ‘time for yourselves’. A selfish mantra of incompetent generations raised by equally inadequate and incompetent parents. It’s time for you all to repent, to atone for the original sin of parenthood. The father, a failed god, the mother, a goddess who didn’t abort! Now the Eye of the World is upon you! Lost Angels found you and Lost Angels has saved yet another little angel from two incapable people. See us, hear us, audience! This was the episode Black Cat. Halloween Special.”

When the cameras turned off, the father said, “But I was a good father.” The spotlights went dark. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, two men led him somewhere.

“This episode of Lost Angels is going to be really good,” one of them said with certainty.

The father felt the damp air on his forehead. His vision became clearer, and he saw a truck in front of him. "Why is there nothing in that trailer?" he wondered. Suddenly, his thoughts were disrupted by a jolt of realization.

"Wait, wait, how come I don't know about this law? How come I don’t know about your show? Who are you?"

"Ah, our show is very private," replied the other man, tightening his grip under his arm and pushing him into the trailer. The door slammed shut with a loud thud, plunging him back into darkness. "But, we are about to be heard."