A/N: I've been on the fence about writing this for weeks, but a series of Sergio stories inspired me to actually do it. My only warning? Sergio is a brat. I also said i would never write fan fiction again... It looks like I have broken my own rule. I apologise for that, i don't apologise for my British English though.
Three months in this strange abode and I feel my last shred of reality slipping through my claws. I try to grab its slippery substance, as if in a dream where such things are tactile, but I find myself swiping at nothing but the mere illusion of the substance.
The blonde sometimes orange pink streaked one sees this strange phenomenon in me; she sees the evidence of my tenuous grip on reality in the claw marks on her squishy soft nap chair. I believe her grip on reality is also fading, a strange tut and clicking noise leaves her throat when she witnesses my sickness. I can only assume there is something in the water bowl causing the room's shapes to be bright, too bright. Everything has become fuzzy around the edges, no longer the clean flat lines of my tall dark mistress'. I wonder what has caused her absence, if she has fallen to the same disease which is taking me I can only pray the end was with great haste and with little pain.
I am used to solitude; my previous and greatly missed mistress was away upon many occasions. While this is true, she would also gather her smaller and smellier servants to check upon my wellbeing in her absence. Food and drink was provided, I also suspect she ordered the younger, unlined human with strange pockmarked skin and little fur to provide me with a wonderful substance which I can only assume is prohibited as it was not supplied to me directly. The female would not wish to be apprehended handling such substances as fish oil herself. This was the job of her minions.
In this psychedelic world of fluffy beds with strange noises coming from the blonde human's room when her mate visits for procreation (after three months and no offspring, I conclude that she is voicing her screams of anguish). I no longer am provided fish oil, I must assume that she is a law abiding citizen, and therefore unaware of her power as my servant to acquire such substances and retain her anonymity.
I also suspect the unsatisfactory male does not favour me. I am not surprised; in my considerable experience of the female species they are far more adept at noticing my regal disposition. The male looks at me with weary, cold eyes. My charms in acquiring new minions may have failed, but this human, at least, knows to respect that which is to be feared. I have, before, upon the company of my old nosed human, come across a male who not only failed to see the royal disposition of my charms but also failed to fear my presence.
It is a few and far between human who is this intellectually challenged.
The blue eyed strange talking old unfamiliar male was skulking fearlessly outside my abode of old. He frequently, using brains I thought had never been gifted to the human species, only chose to sit still, unmoving in their strange transportation boxes listening to music that sounded, to my trained ears, like the glorification of a thousand worthless canines. No humanoid that willingly consorts themselves with the enemy shall approach me or my human subjects. Not even a humanoid that has moved past their seemingly useless instinct to sleep far less than twenty hours a day.
I am a cat of a kind disposition, in the event of my subjects' actions pleasing me I will reward them, not greatly, but enough to use as considerable bribery to convince them to continue their actions. In such spirit, I ejected the blue eyed dog worshiper with high spirits, confident in the continuation of my oil spiked meals.
I expect that the male, now sporting an array of scratch wounds about his face and distressing hairless head, will be forced to acknowledge the superiority of the cat species over vile canines. His attempts to enter my home with a flowery smelling box were correctly hindered. I have noticed the human species strange affinity for wearing the furs and skins of dead animals when compensating for their own lack of fur; on that day I believe I avenged my distant cousin, Tony, for his unfortunate transformation into a 'rug' for ignorant human decoration.
The male never returned to my residence, I believe I deserve much praise for my achievement in ejecting him from our comfortable existence.
Sadly, much to my extreme detriment, tall dark and nosed female has disappeared from my life despite my gratuitous efforts and I am left with the blonde, lacking in fish oil, eccentric who expects me not to chase the fastener on her strange, wrap around clothing. I cannot see a great need for this item other than to shield her stunning lack of fur from my eyes after her daily torture in what is called a shower cubicle. Humans, for all their electrical knowledge, are oddly ignorant in the ways of washing with their tongues.
The dark haired nose female always left her wrap around on her bed for me to attack. She would then draw me to her height and scratch my ears upon leaving the torture cubicle. It was worth her damp skin for my place cushioned at her chest and the head massage I would be given upon her distraction from her everyday tasks.
I yearn for the days of my prime where I could climb on to the nosed one with no thought of being squashed in exuberant arms. I yearn for the days where I could confidently approach a strange unfamiliar human and slice their skin for their support of the canine cause.
My loss of grip on a reality has only one identifiable cause. The blonde sometimes orange pink streaked one. I fear if I do not escape my fluffy prison soon, I will fall to the same demon which took my loving, dark haired subject from me. My very presence here is threatening to take another of my nine lives away from me. I will continue to persevere only in the security of knowing I will never allow myself to acquire the odour of the feral cats.
I must leave my journal now. The blonde one is back with the male with what smells like the long wiggly food from paper boxes.
I will return to my memoirs upon their exit, i can only pray that by this point, I will not have lost any more of my grip on this reality.
A/N: Please R&R ... And yes, I'm fully aware I'm insane.