My Youth, My Beauty

by Cpt. Carraghay

"Of course. Macavity is not here, because he is preparing his own ceremony. But what of Grizabella?" Mestophiles's eyes widened as he contemplated the implications of her absence. "We have been caught in a decades-long game of cat-and-mouse. Our missing felines are truly but lambs, and Grizabella is the slaughter."

1. Chapter 1

The moon hung low over the London streets that night, a light brighter and far more invasive than any streetlamp. Grizabella, her paws tracking through puddles of carelessly discarded human potions, caught a reflection of her grey coat in the drink. Her once luxurious gown, when stained in the wine of their current mirth, somehow managed to take on a semblance of its old, dark shade. I was beautiful then, she thought, flashing her fangs in a brief smile before the strain of her journey forced a ragged cough from her lips. I was beautiful then, but now only the Jellicle Moon pays this old crone any mind. Leave off, she cursed inwardly, and shine on some other cat's darkness.

The heap where she'd made her recent home was well shaded, at least, and she let her coat sink wearily to the ground as soon as she knew It was no longer watching. A tall, broken mirror- as tall and broken as it needed to be to reflect her visage- sat in the corner of the den. Her feline eyes adjusted and she had to turn away when the contour of her body became legible in the dark light. The hunch of her back, long limbs pulled downward by pockets of pale excess flesh; a mane of unkempt grey hair which failed now to cover her decently, as her breasts sagged far below the extent of it.

The wall of mementos she kept from her youth was a far preferable sight. Trinkets, letters from admirers, old decorations she used to adorn herself with recalled images of her shining face in the lamplight, in the spring of her youth. Autumn had come and gone, and now in winter even her old self drew feelings of jealous rage from the pit of her being.

Behind her dressing room curtain a muffled sound began to overpower her inner turmoil. She had taken too long getting home, of course, and now her task would be that much more trying. Still, all the anguish of the night's vigil had only invigorated her desires. She would persevere, no matter the cost to her everlasting soul.

Following the sound to her private chamber- more private even than the heap itself- she steeled her weary limbs for the task ahead. The knife lay on its rack, curved as a cat's claw is curved. A gift from the Sorcerer Cat, adorned with jewels of the deepest red. Its shape caught the light like a cheshire cat's grin. Timid and shaking, Grizabella tip-toed toward her mark. She struck true, and after a last futile moan the noises ceased.