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 |   Suitable refuse. |
| Salmon, I remember she always smelt of fresh-caught salmon fillets, and I often wondered why. Why did that odd scent haunt Liz so? That's who the girl in the picture is, Elizabeth Groat. We attended the same high school and grew up down the block from one another, but we barely ever spoke. She and I were outcasts, each living an opposing rhythm; mine akin to awkward jazz, while she howled the blues. Thinking back, each other's company would've ended our shared period of isolation, and perhaps even brought a shred of happiness to our young lives, but we are who we are. It's like my father used to say before he passed, we cant' change the was, only the is and the isn't by our doing, or lack thereof. Holy Geez, my father died over ten years ago from bowel cancer. My life fell apart during the lead up to his passing, and I forgot all about him; how could I forget everything, and why can I suddenly remember all this? "Don't forget to feed the cat!" That same strange voice, I know I've heard it before, but where? I'm standing in the kitchen, my kitchen. Something's wrong here, I know I wasn't here a moment ago. No, I was, I was elsewhere; I don't know exactly, but I know I wasn't here. My hands clutch a small bowl filled with pinkish fish-mince, the kind that smells like Lizzy Groat. Her red hair frizzed out like some cheap clown wig, and her pale skin shined near-translucent. On her face, a thousand freckles framed her emerald eyes, and she felt smoothly cold, like a fresh kidney from a butcher's cooler. The kids at school called her the Pussy Piper because a trail of cats followed her everywhere she went. She loved those damn things. I remember she told me once that she loved them more than they loved her. "Don't forget to feed the cats." That familiar voice called out again. Do I know this lady? I'm standing in a bedroom, my bedroom, and I now hold two small bowls full of pinkish fish-mince outstretched in my arms. How am I here? Do I ordinarily feed the cats here? I remember gripping her wrists tightly and tossing her backward, she begged and pleaded, but I didn't stop. My face, I felt it smiling at her misery, even if my heart wasn't. She landed on the carpet, and I slammed the door shut; her fists pounded against the other side of it until they bled; her blood stuck to the cheap paint and dried in awful smatterings. Her cries went unaided, and we went home. The next day, she wasn't at school, but we soon heard what happened; everybody heard. Worried neighbors called the police, but by the time they arrived, she'd died. They beat the door down and found her lying on her back in that little janitorial closet, a herd of cats feasting on her frail flesh. The Pussy Piper became a Pussy Pie, and we killed her. For a fading moment, I craved popularity, I wanted friends, and I tried to impress the people I hated the most by teasing my only kindred spirit in that godforsaken city. Why did I never tell anyone? She died alone, frightened, and scared, in a dark closet because of me, and what punishment did I get? Nothing. No comeuppance, no conviction, nothing but thoughts of her, and what I'd done; living free and guilty for years. "Don't forget to feed all the cats." She's speaking to me, I know that's her. Even after not hearing her voice for a decade and a half, I recognize her. I'm standing in that closet now, and my hands are empty. She wants me to feed the cats like she did that last time, and I owe her that. How could I remember so much but I didn't remember that I don't own a cat. I've never owned a cat because they remind me of her, of what I did to her. They're scratching at the door now; I'm terrified though I understand, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry, but it's time to go; I have some cats to feed. |
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