Free Fiction

 

I think Jenny Callister’s cat watches me.

Jenny Callister is my neighbor. She bakes these red velvet things (it’s really just chocolate cake dyed a deep red) and hands them out to the new neighbors on the street. She wants everyone to think she’s nice. She has big hair also and a fake smile. She once sold like a million pieces of makeup – in one of those multi-level marketing scams – and now she drives an expensive pink car.

Everyone waves to Jenny when she passes by because she’s always in that bright pink car.

Everyone says she could sell clouds to the sky.

I know the real Jenny Callister because I knew her when she was young, a very long time ago. I know, for a fact, that her family has been in this town for a very long time. She likes to smile and say “My family has grown roots here,” but she’s a terrible liar. She doesn’t have any people. She has no connection to this town at all. Her people came here with Reconstruction. She’s the descendant of carpetbaggers and scallywags. They came like a plague of locusts and forced good people out of their ancestral homes and into starvation and despair.

That’s what Jenny Callister does too. She forces people into debt and bankruptcy with her ridiculous pyramid schemes. She even tried to sell me some kind of stuff one day.

“Oh, Jenny, you know I am allergic to so many different chemicals,” I said to her. We were standing in her front yard. She was wearing these pink shoes with 4 inch heels. Honestly, a woman her age.

“I have hypoallergenic makeup too,” she said. She had pink lipstick on her teeth. It was disgusting.

“Oh, you are so sweet,” I said. “But I am going to stick to my usual brands.” 

We chatted for a while but I don’t remember what else she said. I just remember her teeth looked like big white chiclets. Her cat was watching me that day too. I saw him, perched just as pretty as you please, on her roof. He was looking at me, just a-staring, with his yellow eyes.

“What is your cat’s name?” I said to Jenny that day.

“Oh, that’s Yellow Eyes,” she said.

“Yellow Eyes?” I said, smiling as if I were amused by the weird name. “How original.” 

“My son named him. His eyes are bright and sparkly like topazes. His fur is like mink,” she said. “He’s just such a special cat.” 

Everything in Jenny’s life has to be special, even her mangy old feline. I swear there is something wrong with that cat. He does not behave like other cats. He doesn’t get sleepy. He doesn’t take naps. I’ve never seen that cat even groom himself. Most cats sleep 20 hours out of a day but not that Yellow Eyes. I know because from where I sit in my living room, I can see Jenny Callister’s house. I like to knit and that little window there in my living room is full of just the prettiest natural light.

That’s how I know about Jenny Callister. That’s how I know about her.

Let me tell you the story.

One day, I was sitting at the window in my living room, working on a complicated Xmas sweater, and I saw Jenny come out of her front door dressed head to toe in bright pink. I mean, it was the hottest pink you can imagine. It could probably be seen from one of those satellites in space. Anyway, I watched her walk outside in these bright pink heels, her hair all done up in a towering French twist thing. She looked like the wife of a televangelist or one of those whore housewives on those trashy TV shows.  

That wasn’t the weird thing though.

The weird thing is I saw her put something in her trunk, a weird looking doll thing. At least, I think it was a doll. It was something vaguely child-shaped with long blonde hair hanging down. I was watching her, sitting there knitting, and then I noticed that weird animal watching me. He was staring at me pretty as you please, not even blinking. Then, that strange cat of hers jumped from the top of the white fence and ran towards Jenny Callister. She bent down and picked him up and nuzzled him.

Then she drove away.

Well, not two hours later, I got the worst case of pink eye I’ve ever had.

Do you think that’s a coincidence? She wears pink, drives a pink car and I get pink eye.

One time, she had a “meeting” of her saleswomen in that pyramid scheme of hers. You should have seen these women. They showed up dressed to the nines, big hair, shining white teeth and all wearing these bright pink power suits. They were carrying bags of merchandise (all pink, of course) and laughing in unison. Now when I say they were laughing in unison I don’t just mean they were laughing at the same time. I mean they were laughing the same laugh. If their laughter had been a song, it would have been the kind of song that you hate but can’t get out of your head. I could hear it, ringing in my head, for hours afterwards.

I waited at the window for the women to emerge from the “party.” 

One of them noticed me, sitting in my own window just knitting away, and waved at me. I smiled and waved back. Something black caught the corner of my eye. It was that damned yellow-eyed cat. It had sidled up to my window and was sitting in my flower box, staring at me. I tapped the window with my knitting spears but that cat didn’t care at all.

Then my doorbell rang.

It was Jenny Callister with her pearls and her big white teeth.

“Well, hey,” she said. “We saw you sitting there and I thought I would give you one of my introductory sample trays.”

“Well, aren’t you sweet,” I said. “You are just the kindest neighbor I have ever had.” 

“Just give it a try and if you like it, well, I have plenty more, of course,” she said. She pulled a card from her purse. It was bright pink. “Even if it isn’t for you, you are more than welcome to attend our little get-togethers. In fact, we are starting a book club and I’d like to invite you to our very first meeting.”

“A book club? Well, that sounds wonderful. I just love to read,” I said. “When is the first meeting?” 

“It’s day after tomorrow. We’ll have wine and cheese and I think Abby is going to make her special lemon cakes that are to die for.” She took a step away from the door. “So you’ll try and make it then?” 

“Oh, of course,” I said. “I have always wanted to get to know everyone in the neighborhood better. I see you and your pink ladies come and go and I’m always curious about what ya’ll are doing. Isn’t that funny?”

“That is so funny?” Jenny Callister said even though there was nothing funny at all about the situation. I knew exactly what these women wanted. They wanted to sell me some of their cheap makeup or tacky jewelry or essential snake oils. Jenny began to back away. She waved as she walked down my driveway, her pink heels clicking.

“We’ll see you tomorrow then,” she chirped.

I went inside, turned on my laptop and resumed my seat in the window. I googled Lydia Lang cosmetics. My eyes were then assaulted by a hot pink website, blinking and twinkling at me, busy as a bee. This absurd “company” was little more than a pink pyramid scheme, just as I thought. I read several investigative reports about Lydia Lang products. She sold makeup and jewelry and some kind of jade egg that you are supposed to stick in your lady business. (Now who in the hell wants to do that?)  

I looked up and saw that damned yellow-eyed monster staring at me from between the white fence posts in my front yard. He was like a speck of night, just squatting there, leering at me. He’d blink ever so often and look away but he always looked back to my window.

He was watching me.

I pulled the drapes, all of them, until my house was dark.

“Honey, why have you pulled the curtains?” my husband said when he got home from work.

“Oh, I have a migraine. The light is hurting my eyes, I guess,” I said.

My husband never questioned anything I did. He was a good husband.

“I got invited somewhere today,” I told him, over dinner. “The nice woman across the street invited me to one of her soirees.” 

“Hmm,” he said. “She trying to sell you stuff?” 

“Oh, I don’t think so,” I said, forking some chicken into my mouth. “I think she’s just trying to be friendly. We’ve lived across the way from each other for a while now. I think she wants to make friends.” 

“Jerry knows her,” he said. Jerry was a coworker of my husband’s. He was a terrible bore. “He says she’s always throwing things at the house, trying to get people to buy her womany stuff.” 

“What is womany stuff?” I said, laughing. “And what kind of things does she throw?”

“She gives these parties,” he said. “Jerry’s wife came home all excited about selling her worthless junk to everyone in the neighborhood. Turns out everyone in the neighborhood already had the inventory so they ended up eating the expense. Total waste of time and money. Jerry said Jenny had his wife ready to do anything for her, selling all that weird crap.” 

“What did Jerry’s wife do with all that inventory?” I asked.

“I dunno. It’s probably sitting in the garage or in the attic or something,” he said.

I finished knitting a sweater while watching reruns of The Office. When my husband fell asleep, I went upstairs to our attic. It had been finished several years ago but we seldom went into it and I’m pretty sure my husband had almost forgotten about it. The attic was supposed to be my knitting or sewing room or office. I moved my plants to the attic too. My husband never noticed. Several years before, I told my husband that I wanted to start an ebay or an etsy business. He yawned and said “fine whatever you want” so I went ahead and did it.

Our attic has a small round window inside a dormer. I can see right into Jenny Callister’s house from that window. One night she forgot to close her curtains and I watched her fight with her husband. I couldn’t hear what they were saying but they sure were loud. Jenny’s husband stomped out of that house and into his car and drove away like a bat out of hell.

He died that night in a car crash.

Now do you think that’s a coincidence?

Next morning, I woke up early and watched Jenny toddle out to her bright pink car in those absurd heels, wearing one of her Lydia Lang pink suits. (The material looks like airport carpet). She waved when she saw me sitting on the porch and I waved back.

“Good morning,” she chirped. She has these big white teeth. They will practically blind you in certain lights.

“Hey, honey,” I said. “You look pretty as can be in your pink outfit.” 

“Thank you so much,” she said. She took a sip from her travel mug. “This is the latest design from Lydia Lang. Consultants only get them when they reach a certain threshold so I’m real excited.”

“I just bet you are,” I said.

We both waved and smiled and I watched her drive away, still smiling.

Then I went upstairs to my attic sewing room. I had oodles of fabric up there, gathering dust in the corner. I spent a few hours searching through it. I needed just the right shade. I ended up using my secret money (the money I kept hidden from my husband, for obvious reasons) to buy some fabric. I had to go to four different fabric stores to find it. It took a few more hours to find the right pattern. I chose something that might have been worn in the early 1960s. The pattern looked like the outfit Jackie Kennedy wore when her husband was killed right in front of her on that fateful day in Dallas, TX.

I wondered if the pink ladies across the way had ever had blood all over their pink suits.  

I worked on that suit for days on end. I didn’t even sleep. My husband poked his head into the attic, saw the look of determination on my face, and poked his head right back out.

I keep him on a need to know basis, for obvious reasons.

I finished the suit one afternoon. I tried it on. I even made a pink pillbox hat for it. I looked okay in it. I was about 25 lbs. overweight, by modern-day standards and Jenny Callister and her pink ladies were all probably no larger than a size 4. She probably puts them all on restrictive diets. She probably starves them and makes them worship a glowing pink pyramid she keeps in her house.

Well, the invitation finally came.

The invitation was pink, of course. It had this frilly lacy handwriting on it. Jenny’s signature was an enormous thing, all swirls and little hearts. Tiny shards of glitter clung to the invitation. It left a glittering slug trail on my skirt. I spent hours on my hair and makeup. Then I washed it all off and applied my usual face. I didn’t want anyone to think I had any faces to spare.  

The sky was a pinkish lavender by the time I knocked on Jenny’s front door. The doorbell sounded like a carillon fanfare. It went on and on, like they were the bells of Notre Dame Cathedral.

“Hello there, I love your hair like that,” Jenny said, big smile pasted on her face. “What have you done with it? Did you get layers put in it?” 

“I sure did,” I said. “I don’t know if I like it though. My regular girl has been out sick so I had to find someone else real quick and it was so hard.”

“Oh, I just hate that for you,” Jenny said. “Come on in. We are all in the sun room. I opened the windows so we can feel the lovely breeze. It smells like mimosa. It’s just wonderful.” 

 Jenny’s house was chic as hell. Everything looked curated, stamped and polished. Practically every surface reflected some other surface. Her sun room was all white wicker and pink gingham. It made me want to gouge out my own eyes. I held up the tray I’d brought.

“I brought some of my famous chocolate pound cake squares,” I said. “Old family recipe.”

The pink ladies, seated in their white and pink wicker chairs, turned to me and smiled the same painful white-toothed smile. They all looked like their faces had been stretched into a rictus grin. They cooed together in unison over my chocolate pound cake squares.

“Now what do you do over across the street,” someone named Candy asked.

“Oh, I’m a homemaker,” I said. “I used to be a criminal lawyer” 

“You did?” This woman’s name was Mandy. “That sounds fascinating.” 

“It was, sometimes,” I said, sipping at my cup of tea. “But it was also very stressful. I am lucky I was able to retire so young.” 

“You certainly are,” Jenny said. “Although I love Lydia Lang products so much. It hardly feels like work to sell them. They pretty much sell themselves.” 

The pink ladies began to nod vigorously.

I pretended to be interested in their pink crap for the next hour or so. I cooed over her tray of cheap face paint, the kind of stuff that streetwalkers use, no doubt. I stared at a brochure of teeth whitening goo while the pink ladies flashed their chiclet teeth grins at me. I watched, smiling, as they ate my chocolate pound cake squares.

“My stars, these cakes are delicious,” Jenny said. “I’ve never had anything so rich and decadent. I feel positively naughty.” 

The pink ladies laughed as if Jenny had just said the funniest thing they’d ever heard.

“Now, where did you get that suit and that little hat?” Jenny said to me. I could hear her lips stretching over her teeth. “It’s exquisite. I just love that hat? It reminds me of something my grandmother would wear to church.” She laughed again, a full-bodied laugh that rang in the corners of the room.

“I made it,” I said. “I’m an excellent seamstress. I’ve been making my own clothes for years. I’m thinking of starting a business on ebay or etsy or one of those places.”

“You know what? Your suit reminds me of the one Jackie O was wearing when poor Jack was killed.” 

The other pink ladies said “hmm,” in the same way, with the same inflection, at the same time.

Now, tell me, is that normal?

“I am making some white gloves to wear with it,” I said. “If you can’t buy the vintage clothes, you should just make them.”

Jenny’s brow was crinkled in thought.

“You know, you’re right,” she said. “I think Lydia Lang harkens back to a simpler time. When women had time for dinner parties and society events and the like. At one time, women were raised to be good hostesses. We were trained in being pretty and charming. Remember?”

The pink ladies nodded. I nodded too.

“When I was a girl, I loved cotillion,” I said. “But children these days don’t learn things like that.” 

“You know, they really don’t,” Jenny said. She was staring into my face as if I was the most fascinating creature in the world.

We talked for another hour about this and that. We all agreed that absolutely everything was better in the 1950s and 1960s, even though we hadn’t lived through them.

“Well, we have Dack Turnip. Isn’t he going to make America like the old days?” a pink lady said.

Jenny eyed her like she was a dog who had weed on the carpet.

“Now, Connie, we don’t talk about politics at Lydia Lang events,” she said.

I adjusted myself in my seat. It was time for my big pitch.

“Ladies, I just had the best idea,” I said. “Why don’t I make and design custom Lydia Lang suits? I can make them to look just like Jackie O’s pink suit with the pink pillbox hat. Remember how Reese Witherspoon wore her clothes in that movie – oh, what was the name of that film – Legally Blonde? Was that it? She looked just darling in that movie.”

I had said the right thing. I had invoked Reese Witherspoon, a real Southern girl, Oscar winner with a chiseled chin and a book club and long blonde hair and America’s Sweetheart to boot.

“You know, that show Mad Men was so popular because of the aesthetic,” I continued. “It reminded people of the good days, when women dressed like women, when women acted like women. Nowadays, just about anyone can say “I’m a woman” even if it’s just a lumberjack in drag or whatever. I think Lydia Lang could show people how it could still be.” 

“How what could still be?” Jenny said, her smile painted on her face.

“Why, the world,” I said. “We could be women again. We could bring America back to its former greatness by showing everyone what a woman can really do and be.” 

We spent the next hour discussing possible designs. One women wanted a suit that looked exactly like Jackie O’s, the suit that had sported the blood and brain matter of her dead husband. Another woman wanted a pink suit like Reese wore in Legally Blonde, complete with hat and pearls.

“Maybe ya’ll should all wear pearls,” I said. “It will lighten the hollow in your throats.”

“I think pearls are a lovely idea,” Jenny said. She appeared antsy, nervous.

“I think I’d better head back,” I said. “Please keep the chocolate squares. I have to check on that old husband of mine.”

There were hugs all around, except from Jenny, who had invented an excuse to go into the kitchen with dirty dishes. I went home and began to sew that very night. From time to time, I would walk over to the window to stare at Jenny’s house. There was a light on in the second story window but the curtains were drawn.

That damned cat was sitting on the roof. He was just a cat-shaped silhouette but I swear his freaky yellow eyes flickered with light. As I watched, a feminine-looking hand (probably Jenny’s – pulled the curtain back, opened the window and said something to the cat. The cat didn’t acknowledge her. He was still staring at me. I stared right back at the foul creature. I’d come across his kind before. After a moment, the stupid cat pranced through the window and into the house. The window came down, the curtain closed, the light went out.

It took weeks to make the suits. Even a world-class seamstress like myself couldn’t churn out pink suits faster than that. When I was done, I put on my gloves and covered the dresses in plastic before hanging them on hooks in the attic.

My husband told me the suits were lovely. He said he was glad I was making friends.

“I am too,” I said. “They are such lovely women.”

The next day was beautiful, a perfectly beautiful day. I walked out the front door to find that damned demonic fell beast squatting on my front porch, staring holes into me. I hissed at it. I swiped at it. Nothing worked. Finally, I went inside and filled a water bottle with water and bleach. I squirted the damned black mess with it but he didn’t care. He didn’t even blink.

Unnatural creature.

 I gathered the suits and put them inside the absurd plastic cases. I surveyed them for flaws. I found them nearly flawless. They were all the same, really, but I’d taken care to make each slightly different.

The suit I made for Jenny was the loveliest. I knew she wouldn’t be able to resist the little pillbox hat I’d made.

Sure enough. They all squealed for the suits like little piggy pigs. I made a speech.

“I just want to say thank you for letting an old lady like me do something for ya’ll,” I said. I dabbed at my eyes. Jenny and her girls erupted in a chorus of awwws. “You know, doing this work is just really good for the soul, for my Christian soul and I just want to thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

We drank some wine. I’d brought over these little devil’s food squares and I passed them out. As I was sitting on Jenny’s cream-coloured couch, that damned cat jumped on the arm and resumed his stare.

“Now, Yellow Eyes, get down from there,” Jenny said. She swatted gently at the cat. “Don’t bother these nice ladies. They may be allergic.” 

“I am allergic, as a matter of fact,” I said. “And sometimes this little fella comes to my house and stares through my windows. I think he wants to make friends but, unfortunately, I just can’t.”

Jenny Callister was stroking the pink fabric of her suit.

“I just can’t believe you made these so fast,” Jenny said. “You are some kind of witch or something.”

Then she laughed as if she’d said something funny. All the pink ladies laughed too.

“It’s like they are vintage but with a modern kind of twist,” Jenny said. “I just can’t believe it. How did you know our sizes?”

“I have an excellent eye,” I said. “I always have. My mother said it was a gift.”

That damned feline monstrosity jumped back onto the arm of the couch.

“Well, he likes you,” Jenny said, stuffing a cake square into her mouth. “He hardly ever likes anyone.”

Jenny walked me to her front door.

“I feel like we should pay you for your time and expense,” Jenny said. “I mean, these lovely suits are just – I can’t even describe them. You are some kind of genius.”

“Oh, it was my pleasure. Don’t worry about the money. I don’t care about the money. It makes me happy to help you and your sweet friends.”

As I walked across the street, I tried to remember if chocolate killed cats or dogs. I made a mental note to google it.

I went inside and settled myself at my usual chair. I had a good view of Jenny’s house. I watched as the other pink ladies climbed into their cars and drove smoothly away. I watched as the lights went out in Jenny’s downstairs windows. I watched as a light went on in her upstairs bedroom window. Her new boyfriend wouldn’t be home for a few more hours. He worked late sometimes. Her curtains were drawn so I couldn’t see her movements at all.

She didn’t open her curtains for several days. I watched her house. I knitted. The other pink ladies didn’t stop by. I watched Jenny’s handsome new boyfriend get out of his car and slink inside the house.

After a week and no sightings, I called a friend who lived one street over.

“Honey, have you seen or heard from Jenny Callister lately?” I asked. “I haven’t seen her in a coon’s age.” 

“You haven’t heard? She got very sick. It’s all hush-hush but Angelina the nurse practitioner told me that she was hospitalized for a while. She’s home now though.”

“Well, what’s her diagnosis?” 

“That’s the thing. They don’t know,” she said. “But Angelina said she looks like the living dead. Her hair fell out. Her teeth are falling out. It’s just awful.”

She said some other things but I didn’t listen. We hung up. I resumed my usual seat at my window. The sun was dipping behind the clouds, igniting them until they glowed like the pink suits I’d sewn for Jenny and her pink pixies. When the streetlights began to hum, I walked across the street to her front door.

Jenny’s young boyfriend came to the door. He was disheveled and unshaven.

“Hi there. I wanted to stop by and see how Jenny is doing. I haven’t seen her around the neighborhood in a while.” 

His eyes were bleary and red. He ran a hand through his thinning hair and sighed.

“She hasn’t been well,” he said.

“Well, I’m so sorry to hear it,” I said. “Is there anything I can do?” 

“Um, actually, there is something she wanted me to ask you,” he muttered. “Please come in.” 

I stepped into Jenny’s cool house. I could hear the hum of a humidifier. The house smelled odd, like something very old was living inside it.

“The doctors don’t know what it is,” the husband told me. “They’ve done so many tests.” 

“I am so sorry,” I said. I put a hand on his arm. “I know this is hard.”

He nodded absently.

“She wants to see you.” 

He led me upstairs to Jenny’s bedroom. Everything in it was a fleshy pale pink, like the walls were wallpapered in human skin. Jenny lay on the bed, covered in a powder pink satin bedspread. Her eyes were open and staring. She was moving her lips, as if she was talking to someone on the ceiling. Her blonde hair had thinned so much I could see her scalp. She rolled her eyes towards me.

“You,” she whispered. “You came.” 

“Of course, honey,” I said. “I wanted to see how you were doing. I hadn’t talked to you in weeks.” 

Jenny closed her eyes briefly and inhaled.

“The suit,” she said. “You made it.” 

“Yes, I did, remember? I made them for your whole team.”

Jenny tried to sit up. The bedspread fell from her arms. Her fingers were crooked and swollen. Her wrists looked like bird legs. One of the straps on her nightgown slipped from her bony goblin shoulder and she attempted to return it to its proper place.

“Let me, dear,” I said. I gently picked at the strap and pulled it over her shoulder. Her collarbones were so sticky and protruberant I thought they might cut through her bluish-white skin. Slowly, she lifted a hand and pointed at me.

“You made the suits,” she whispered, brokenly. Then she closed her eyes. Her breathing was audible and labored.

“I did make the suits, dear. I absolutely made the suits,” I said. “And you looked beautiful in yours.” 

“Beautiful,” she muttered.

 “All of you lovely ladies looked beautiful in your suits,” I said. “And you will be out of this bed in no time. Don’t you worry.”

“The suit . . . dying,” she whispered. Her lips were cracked and white and horrible.

“What was that, sweetie?” I bent over and whispered into her ear.

“It was the chocolate cake squares,” I said. “You must be allergic.” 

That’s when Jenny knew. Her eyes were red and droopy, her mouth worked soundlessly but I knew by the look in her eyes – she knew that I had poisoned her. I squeezed her hand and made my excuses.

“I will be back to check on you soon,” I said.

I never saw her again. She died a few days later. I talked to the pink ladies at her funeral. There were tears and convulsions but I took them all aside and told them I wanted to help their organization in any way possible.

“That is what Jenny would have wanted,” I said. “She would have wanted Lydia Lang to make our country great again.” 

I hugged them. One of the pink ladies told me I was like their mother hen now. The rest didn’t take long. I invited them over for tea and wine and cakes. They elected me their new Lydia Lang Leader in under three hours. I waved to them from the porch as they drove away. I went upstairs to my attic sewing room. I looked out the window at Jenny’s house.

That damned cat was sitting in the middle of my lawn.

I stomped to the porch, a broom in one hand.

“Shoo, you black bastard,” I yelled. “Get on out.” 

The cat blinked at me. It didn’t move a muscle. I went inside to fill a water bottle full of bleach but he was gone when I returned. I resumed my seat at the window. I was crocheting a hat for one of the pink ladies’ children. I looked up every so often to stare at Jenny’s house, blinds down, no one home. After a few hours, I went to bed.

I woke up that night with that black beast sitting on my chest.

It was so dark in my bedroom that all I could see were his yellow eyes. He seemed to have stopped blinking. He stared at me with those glowing yellow orbs like Rosemary’s Baby’s eyes. I tried to call for my husband but he didn’t stir. I tried to turn my head but I couldn’t. I tried to lift a hand but I couldn’t move at all.

I was totally paralyzed underneath that fell beast of a cat.

I should have known.

I should have guessed.

Jenny Callister had been a witch. She was so unoriginal that she even had a black cat as a familiar. I moved my lips. I could make sounds. I began to holler wordlessly, opening my mouth as wide as I could, screaming as loud as I could. My fool of a husband could sleep through damned near anything. I shut my mouth, swallowed, and began to holler again.

That hell beast of a cat jumped into my mouth and slithered down my throat to land somewhere around my heart. My heart began to beat in time with its heart. I felt it curl up in my chest, as if it was taking a nap. I choked. I coughed. Nothing would dislodge the damned thing. I could feel it purring inside me, a loud hum like a locomotive.  

After that, I forgot human speech.

I began to sleep nearly all day, every day.

I stopped sewing. I stopped baking. I did nearly nothing all day long. I spent a few hours a day grooming myself at my vanity and then I would take a nap. Some days I would run the bath water and sit on the edge of the tub, staring at it. My husband began to complain but his words weren’t making sense anymore. I could only understand my own name. I would turn away from him, pretending I couldn’t hear.

One afternoon, I smelled barbecue so I went to investigate. The neighbors were shocked when I snatched a breast of chicken from the table, put it in my mouth and left their home. I left the chicken breast on my porch and went inside.

Then I decided I wanted back outside.

Then I wanted inside again.

I wanted to be outside.

I wanted to be inside.

My husband was irritated, of course, but I was now indifferent to him. He called me crazy. He said he couldn’t understand what had happened to me. I flicked my yellow eyes towards him, peeled my ears back and went to stand by the back door.

My husband, sighing, dutifully let me out into the back yard.

I wanted to sit on the fence.

It was my job to watch what the neighbors were doing.