Note- I don't own CATS, dorkus. Did you think I did?
This fanfic is... well, if I summarize it, it'll sound dumb. Just read it, and review it. Please, I put days of work and sleep deprivation into these words, put some thought into your review.
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1
It's dark, completely dark. Do you know when a minute spins out into an hour, clichéd as that sounds? When an hour becomes a year?
Just before dawn is when they say it's actually the darkest, but it isn't true. Three in the morning. I love that time.
Does a Jellicle need to be a housecat? I wondered about that for a while. I wonder what it would be like to change everything, spend my mornings in the still darkness, with maybe a humming fan above me, and the rumbling snore of a human near me, getting louder and softer like an old cat's purr, to the rhythm of its chest rising and falling. Up. Down. Up. Down.
I asked Munkustrap what it was like once. He liked his humans, and I guess they liked him. They certainly didn't object when he brought Demeter home.
Warm, he said. Warm and soft. Like being carried in a mother's womb again. He says you feel safe.
Me, I love the living dark of early morning in the Junkyard. By three am, most cats are back in their houses, listening to their humans snore, and those that aren't have better things to do than hang around an empty trash heap, most nights out of the year. By four am, it's light with cars and city and the suggestion of sunrise, and the young cats come out to play or get in trouble. So I like the time just in between.
The city immerses me, pulsing with night life. Underneath the car, I can't see the headlights as they blur by, but I can hear the roar of the cars. I can feel distant yells and music wash around me, and I'm more comfortable than I ever was. I feel like I belong to this place more than it could ever belong to me.
Not that I could explain that feeling to my friends. I'm not a deep guy, not at dawn or dusk, or in daytime when I sleep. Just now, away from everything, me and the night. Plato and Admetus are probably the definition of 'not deep'. As far as I can tell, they care about three things- queens, catnip, and queens.
Can I think less of them for that? It's certainly how I act. It is a thought I struggle with, but maybe underneath that, my friends have their own three am sanctuary where they think these thoughts, and they're afraid to tell me or each other, because we're all shallow by nature. At least, on the outside.
Three fifteen. I don't know if for sure, of course, but I've listened to the morning all my life. I can time this hour almost to the minute- at three fifteen the Pollicles start barking to the west as they stop to the east. At three fifteen the first morning pigeon sings, the last rat goes to sleep. Don't ask me why. I've been stalking him for days, from two to three, but I always give up on the hour. The way he looks at me, I'm positive he thinks I'm crazy, but I need this time to think.
There's a lot to think about now. And as the still unreal memory consumes me, I think only of how the night hasn't changed. My life is crazy, upside down, more fucked up than I could ever imagine, but the night doesn't care. It pulses on around me, not stopping, not even slowing...
I can't tell it that's comforting, or icily terrifying.
This is the first of the flashbacks.
It was nine am, when Jellicles go to sleep.
The sun was up, up, up higher than ever, glaring down unforgiving on the junkyard with all the fury of August in the city.
Cats draped themselves over the scorching metal like wet laundry on a line- lolling on cars, trash cans, and appliances, soaking up the heat and storing it in their fur for later.
Later, later, later, they would need it later. By ten am, it was going to be colder than it had ever been for the tribe of Jellicle cats in London.
It had all been done quietly in the night. They thought he was asleep; even she left him, just got up and left him, because he looked too peaceful to wake. She walked out into the junkyard, unchanged as the night, while his life spilled away quietly behind her, and her unaware.
In the end, it was the twins who found out. No one would have checked, because he was supposed to be asleep right now. Another day would have passed, another time of blissful ignorance, before the nightmare descended.
But that wasn't how it happened.
Tantomile found first a black and white tom, curled up on the car hood, and had decided to tell him. Tell him everything that happened, then, in her way, let him deal with it. There were too many cats to be told, she couldn't waste time comforting one who was supposed to be able to deal, anyway.
What would the kittens think?
She shook him roughly, and he lifted his head and hissed at her to go away, but she didn't stop. And something in her face made him stop and stare, and pull himself up.
And she said it. She said it in six hard, emotionless words, not out of cruelty, but because she was saving all of her emotion inside, and she would not show it, not where people could see her.
She said, "Munkustrap's dead. You're the protector now."
Then she walked on into the unchanged day, leaving a shattered life behind her.
'Is it scary?' I ask myself, 'Are you scared?' Hell, yeah. I'm supposed to cope with this. I'm supposed to be there, I'm supposed to be on watch, to comfort everyone, to protect the kittens, to guard the tribe.
(I'm not ready, I'm not ready, I'm not ready,)
I'm supposed to do that and not cry in front of the kittens, because it scares them. I can't cry in front of the grown cats, because I'm their guardian now. I can't cry in front of Plato or Admetus or even my nephews, because guys don't cry. But he's gone. And I won't let myself cry. Everlasting Cat, I won't let myself cry, because if I start, I won't ever stop.
(I'm not ready, I'm not ready, I'm not ready!)
What do I tell Demeter? Thank Bastet I don't have to tell her the news, cold, cold Tantomile took care of that. A wave of hate washes over me, and her face floats into my vision, expressionless, dead, but that white mark gives her a sick, smug smile.
Are they feline, the twins? Do they curl up and cry, actually show emotions, somewhere where we can't see them? Or do they just not give a damn what happens to anyone else?
How did Demeter react? I haven't seen her yet. I've seen others, but not many. And as I look out into the blackness of the night, I realize I don't want to see them. I don't want to come out of here.
Three days before the big Jellicle Ball, there was no word for the activity in the junkyard. Queens buzzed around, talking, laughing, moving in patterns around the area but never keeping still. The air hummed with the question of who would ask who, and while the females would strut their stuff to the utmost, the young males just hung around nervously. After all, it was up to them to do the asking. They didn't say anything, but they thought the same thing as the queens talked about.
It was in the air. Who had the best body? Who was the nicest? Who was going with that knockout, Bombalurina? Did she have a mate? Was the Tugger coming? Would he choose a date, or go solo as always? What about the Heaviside Lair? Who would go up? What would happen, what would a cat do, if they were chosen? What if they didn't want to go? Who would it be?
Munkustrap was above it all. Alonzo was trying to be.
It wasn't easy. The last month or so had been screwed up, and his nephew's jibes about why the hell should he be the second protector hadn't helped. It was all in jest, and Alonzo tried to take it that way. He really did.
But this was nerve wracking. He'd rather be down there, one of the tribe, stressing over who he would ask to the dance, than up here stressing over how to protect them.
His views were slowly changing, too. He'd thought he was one of the tribe. Now he thought the tribe was his. His to protect, defend, care for, even die for.
This was probably what having a kid was like, only worse.
"Alonzo, are you even paying attention to me?"
The thoughts snapped out of the young tom's head, fleeing scattered to their separate corners. They wouldn't be back until three am, that night.
"Alonzo, for Cat's sake! Securing the junkyard is more important than whatever it is you're staring at!"
"I'm not staring at anythi-" The words died in Alonzo's mouth as he realized his gaze had stopped roving the entire tribe and settled right on the flowing body of Bombalurina.
As Munkustrap smiled with only a tint of sarcasm, Alonzo felt a very uncharacteristic heat rise in his face, like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar- when that child actually had been putting one back.
"Sure, and I'm the Rum Tum Tugger. If you don't learn to take your job seriously, anything could happen." But it was said with a smile, just enough of one to take the sting out of the words. And to Alonzo, that was worse than a reprimand.
Three thirty in the morning and the pigeons have officially woken up. They thrum around me in an eerie chorus, like ghosts singing their own last rites. Like one ghost, very clear in my mind, singing for the last time.
(If you don't learn to take your job seriously...)
I used to strive for his approval, just because he was the leader and I wanted to be. I wanted it so bad; I never thought of what being leader was about. I never thought about not crying, and being the sensible one, and even (even, even) giving up catnip, Bast, that was hard. But a leader can't do that, and I didn't even realize that, until he started to train me.
(...anything could happen.)
Could he have picked a worse time to die? Did he fucking plan this? Maybe he's just faking. Maybe it's just a test, except he's in the ground, cold and dead, and it isn't a test.
I'm afraid. There are too many things for me to think about. What about the kittens? Everyone knows Macavity killed him
(and there was an note stuck in his mouth, like a paper white tongue. It wasn't until they took it out that the blood and bile came up all over his fur, and they realized it hadn't been natural causes by far)
everyone knows. And all I can think is, why now? Why, just as the Napoleon of Crime grows in power, just as Old Deuteronomy fades? Why before Quaxo could master his magic, and when the twins' power isn't the right kind to keep us safe?
The junkyard has never scared me more. It's asleep and I want it to stay that way, night breezes rolling through it, everyone safe in their houses, not coming out, not getting killed, because I'm their protector, and if they die, it's my fault. And I can't cry for them, just like I can't cry for Munkustrap, because they all need me to be strong. They all need me! I pound on the dirt, cold as a grave. Why can't they need someone else?
Even worse is the thought that they might not need me. They might not want me. They might just laugh me away...
Three fifty. The sky is getting lighter, and I need to go. I don't want to, god, I don't want to, I want to curl up under the car until I turn into a kitten, a baby kitten who can cry and run to his mother. And just be comforted until the tears go away. I want someone to hold me and tell me that everything will be just fine, they'll take care of it all.
I want...
"Alonzo?"
The voice jolts me, and if I wasn't so tired, so dead and scared, I would have jumped. But the voice itself is terrified, and quavering.
I don't know who can find me here. Who even knows I don't have a home to go back to? It's nothing to be ashamed of. Lots of Jellicles are really street cats. But I don't tell them, still.
"Alonzo?" Now it's scared, more so than me, but I stay hiding, cursing myself for doing this. I don't know who it is, and I don't want to. I want them to go away. Leave me alone.
I need
("I need, I need, I need," sighed Munkustrap. "Sometimes that's all I ever think. And then I see them, and I don't forget it, but it always fades away. Because they need the same things I do. And I'm their servant, really. Not their leader.")
to be comforted.
So do they.
But I'm their protector, they aren't my tribe.
It still hurts to crawl out from under the safety of the car, ten minutes before my time. A lifetime too early.
A face looks into mine, soft and scared. The eyes of the face shine, but not with happiness. Tears slick down white cheeks, and suddenly Victoria throws her arms around me, noise billowing from her in a mushroom cloud, a sob that expands until there is nothing else.
I should do something to comfort her, but I just stand there helplessly, even more terrified.
If this had happened to anyone before, she would have gone running to Munkustrap. Now I'm Munkustrap, the protector, and I'm supposed to do something. Supposed to soothe her and shush her and tell her that she's safe and everything will be all right.
But it won't. And I don't want to lie about this, not about this.
My fur is saturated, her whole body shaking with tears. The sob has broken and repeated itself like a terrible case of the hiccups, but in between attacks, she bawls. Just bawls as loud as she can.
What the hell does she want me to do? What would Munkustrap have done? I have no idea whatsoever.
Gingerly, I pat her back, but then draw my hand away as the sound escalates.
"I-" but my voice breaks, and I don't trust myself to speak, suddenly. In quick, hushed tones, I manage to say the word "Sorry", and then I just stand there, confused and miserable, until she stops crying, until her grip loosens to the point where I can breathe. Wishing she would just go away, and feeling terrible for thinking it.
Tantomile had told the adults first, and let them tell the kittens. Demeter's tears were still wet on Tantomile's fur when she went into her own den to shed tears of her own, ones she was too proud to show in public. In there already, was her brother, and he wanted to cry, but he wouldn't, because toms didn't cry.
As she folded up into her sadness, she remembered feeling sorry for him.
It's very carefully that I pry her off of me, and cup my hands around her shoulders. At arms' length, I hold her for a minute, thinking how she looks as if she might break, and then I let go, the sour taste of blood welling up as I bite my tongue.
"Why?"
I ask her, she doesn't ask me. And she doesn't seem to hear me, just lets increasingly quiet sobs rack her.
"Why did it have to happen like this?" I'm not talking to her, but to myself. I'm still hung up on myself. "Why should he just go?"
And then I realize she is staring at me. My throat doesn't hurt just from sadness, but from the strangled yell I hadn't realized that that last question was. And Victoria stares at me as though my mind is gone. For a moment that seems longer, I stare back, feeling five times my age, then look away quickly, a fifth my age.
And this time it's Victoria who says "Sorry." And she just walks away, probably to cry somewhere else.
I collapse against the car, not crying, thinking of all the better ways I should have handled that.
But I messed it up.
Really messed it up.
I'm not ready.
But not matter how bad that lump in my throat gets, I will not cry.
Even now, now when it's going to make me lose my mouse at any minute, a monster of a lump, a parasite in my body. Sucking away not blood, but willpower. Draining my energy and what strength I have. And there's nothing I can do about it, except try not to cry.
Another flashback, like all the rest but worse for me.
The alley was too small for this kitten. He was crazy, hyper, and just out of the nest, full of energy like his nephew would be, in time.
Off the walls, off the trash cans, to the top of the Dumpster and down to the oily, filthy floor, fighting off countless dogs only he could see, the superhero of his own mind.
He flew from the Dumpster to land, to tumble, head over heels laughing in the way children do when even pain is fun.
And he came to a very solid stop, and fell silent like the grave.
He looked up. Up and up, because the cat that stopped him was tall, or at least full grown. Silver and white stripes danced up and down him, and the kitten just stared, transfixed.
Because the street cats had heard of the Jellicle tribe- no, no Macavity's street cat's, nor the wretched homeless, but ordinary cats that were better on their own, like this kitten's mother. The Jellicles, though, you didn't expect to meet them in the flesh. So he stared, until the tabby smiled.
"Hi!" The kitten couldn't not smile back, he grinned with two rows of teeth, suddenly feeling better. They couldn't be that scary, not if they smiled.
"Hey, kid." Just two words, and both of them would have probably went on their way and forgotten the encounter, if the tall Jellicle hadn't said "Can't talk right now."
Instinctively, the kid asked why not.
The Jellicle said he was tracking down a street cat called Macavity.
The kid asked why.
Shifting from foot to foot, the Jellicle said Macavity was dangerous.
The kid said something along the lines of, if he was dangerous, why was the Jellicle tracking him?
The Jellicle said the kid should call him Munkustrap, and said he had to protect his friends.
The kid asked why.
When I met him, all I could ask was stupid questions. Now he's gone, and I'm back to square one.
I don't really remember my family, because he all but raised me. I'm not sure what made him take in a scruffy kitten in an alley, but he did.
And as I grew, I realized he wasn't that much older than me. And I wondered if I could be like that, too. If I could be the type that everyone looked up to.
As I watch Victoria run off, I get a sinking feeling that I can't.
It's nearly four am before I move, and the pre-dawn sky isn't streaked, as poets claim, but smeared with pale grey, the color of dirty light filtered through smoke.
The streets are coming alive again, and cars move faster as the really early humans speed to wherever they go at this hour. Occasionally, the footsteps of a runner echo down the alleys I think of as mine, and the catcalls and music of night 'businesses' fades into honest traffic.
My feet take me into a neighborhood I don't even know, one that's only vaguely familiar. Heaven and hell alone know why, or who I'm going to go visit. Maybe they'll understand. Yeah, that's what I need. I need someone who will understand why I bawl my eyes out, except that I'm not going to bawl my eyes out. I just want to talk.
To anyone.
But not cry. I can't say too many times, just to myself, that I am not going to cry. Because if I don't, I will.