It's faintly warm around you, something that's just all too familiar to you for god knows how long, but never warm enough to satisfy you. Everything's blurry, unclear, and unfocused to you at first when you open your eyes to an always unfriendly gray surroundings, and so is the hard ground you lay on.

You slowly get up, body feeling heavy and wobbly like usual due to the drugs that are always forcefully shoved down you're throat every night to keep you weak and unable to escape. There's a loud jingling to the both of your sides. You know those sounds are just the tight chains placed at both your ankles and wrists.

You're now sitting, since you don't feel the effort of standing up is there just yet. You don't need to anyway, besides, master's still asleep, you're not going to get screamed at just yet.

All you've got on you is a simple brown rag poorly tied around your waist. It's not smelling the greatest, but it's the best clothing you've got anyway. The only thing that the damned piece of cloth is covering is your pride and you're thighs, but it's not doing much of a good job of that either.

You're skin is battered, cut, bruised, and rough, and it's been that way for along time. You haven't been in a bath for years, and your nails a quite nicely chipped and tarnished with grime and dirt. You gave up on trying to save those since day one. Your blond hair looks more brunette due to the lack of care, long locks sticking to your face and neck, and very choppy at the ends.

In front of you is a row of polished iron bars, nice and clean to keep them from rusting. They keep you in easily along with the chains that bound you into a rather stuffy stone walled cell, and thankfully you don't share it with anyone else. All there is for any sort of furnishing is a broken crate and a chipped platter with the weekly

supply of crumbly stale slabs of bread, which tastes like shit.

It was the year 1915, May 22nd, and this is how it's been for me on the lucky mornings when I wake up, and it's been like that since I got here fifteen years and two months ago.

My name's Edward, and I'm a specially made chimera with house cat genes mixed into me. But I'm human for the most part.

The place I've been staying at all my life was called a Pet Store ironically enough, and of course there were more like me in here of different specie, and some of us were especially made by request with certain characteristics of both body and temperament, but only the people practically drowning in money could afford those.

Most of us were made with a more of an animal mind then a human one so that we were more easily controlled, as disgusting as it sounds, and would obey better then the normal human being to do whatever without question. I however, was accidentally developed with a more human one. I've able to figure out english, I'm just unable to read or write it.

I've never once been bought by anyone due to my temper and violent behavior. As long as I've been here, master hasn't been able to figure me out or brake me of my spirit. I'm simply, "Difficult to handle," as master puts it.

But lately, there's been a man coming around every so often to take a look at me. He had the air of a highly esteemed man with a large ego. The type that I don't even like, and he's most definitely looking to buy me, but hasn't for the past two weeks that he's come here. I think he's just waiting for me to finally look up at him on my own, but I don't want to. I already know he's just another jackass, and I know he isn't worth looking at. Every time he's come around, I'd look at any direction I could but his. Hell, sometimes I'd lay down to stare at the ceiling and wait for him to just leave already.

He wasn't worth my time anyway.

I don't know what his face looks like, and I intend to keep it that way. He's never gotten angry yet because I haven't looked up at him, so I figure he's at least got some patience.

I've just woken up, and the exact same man is right in front of my cell. My senses aren't unfocused anymore, and I can smell him quite clearly. I'm not facing his general direction, so instead I'm facing a dirt covered wall.

He hasn't tried talking to me once. The damned bastard stands there for two hours waiting for me to just look at him, and it's pissing me off severely even more every time he comes here. My patience is rubbing thin, and I don't think I can stand this for too much longer.

I think my tail has puffed out more then once because of him. He's trying to get to me, and it's working very well.

These last few days he's come around has made me want to finally look at him, but I wasn't called stubborn for nothing. So trying to bare with it, I ran my nails against the walls to vent some stress. It's been working, but lately that just didn't cut it anymore.

So to look at him and keep my sanity in check, or not to look at him and lose myself some more? I was doomed to lose it eventually if he kept this up, "if," being the key word. I was betting and hoping he'd go away finally.

But he hasn't, and by now it's been thirty minutes or so since I woke up. My nerves are grating against each other already. I don't think I can stand it any longer.

Ever so slowly do I turn my head to look in his direction. I squint against the bright lights that gleam from the outside windows. He's dressed in a dark blue suit and in a crouching position with some clean white fabric in his arms, no doubt are they clothing, but I'm not looking at his face at all, simply just giving him a faint look

over to calm my thinning nerves. It works, and I calmly now look back at the wall in front of me.

Apparently it was enough of a look over for him to leave, because he suddenly got up and left straight out of the store doors.

He was a strange man in the least.