The Curse of the Cat
186. Waste
They were all old enough, now, that they could fear a monster in the shadows without seeing it year by year. Out of sight, out of mind after all. People remembered the dog because of its bloody end but most didn't recall the wayward horse.
It would just mean admitting he'd lost… again.
But what else was there to do? He could bow out gracefully or try to stop a train. His authority had long been undermined and, one by one, even the members of the zodiac were picking up on it.
And no doubt the rat would be the next one.
A curse meant to provide him a meagre comfort, meant to tie another twelve to him… but that was before they left him one by one, for an illusion of freedom they shouldn't have.
He'd thought they wouldn't miss what they didn't know but it apparently wasn't true, and they seemed hell bent on making him miss what he did.
187. Passion
Koji was ready to kick down the hospital door.
It was a mess and it didn't look like it was going to be straightened out anytime soon. Their infirmary was practically on lockdown, and it was a surprise Fuyuno had allowed them in in the first place. But now the others were coming by every day after school and he was barely leaving.
Lot of good that was doing, though. The cat was still bandaged and curled in their mother's arms.
He was confused. Confused with Fuyuno's motives, with his brother, and with how the fire had even started. Where was the logic in any of it? Was that room so dreary and cold that he'd tried to get warm and overdid it? Had he fallen asleep with a match on like one could fall asleep smoking? Or had he deliberately lit that fire, searching for a way out because he'd thought there was no other way left.
How many days, weeks, had he forgotten? How many days, weeks, had Koichi been alone in that room?
It was still whole, on the outside. Inside was wiped clean, and he'd only peaked in for a moment when his father had sent him home.
A moment, and he'd gone right back, still dirty and in the same, crumbled clothes.
His father had given up after that.
But all the time in the world now wouldn't replace what they'd lost.
188. Flying
He was drifting, somewhere.
Sometimes, the ground he lay on felt intangible. Sometimes, it felt soft and warm. And, sometimes, it was an icy cold that made him cringe away.
It never settled. Like him, it drifted, defying sense.
And his nose was blocked. All he could smell was the stench of something burning, something rotten. They couldn't be the same – he knew that – and yet it was one or the other or sometimes both of them.
His ears were blocked up too.
Wherever he was, currently, defied sense.
But, slowly, it changed. Sounds started creeping in. Voices, from longing dreams. A warmth that didn't flee, to be replaced by an empty cold. And sharper smells. Kinder smells. More sterile, in contrast with the voices and the warmth.
And, finally, his feet, his body left the ground.
Finally, his heart stopped shuddering in the dark and soared.
189. Drought
He was in a dream.
He must be. He could hear his mother's voice. His brother's. His friends. And he could feel warmth, and someone petting him.
He was in his cat form and on his mother's lap. How many times had he done this, over the years? How fortunate had he been to not have a parent who'd think him a monster, who'd treat him like a monster?
Like the monster he was… and yet, the monster was more sane than the human, in that room, wasn't he?
Or was it just the animal: simpler thought processes, easier instincts to fall into: eat and sleep, without thinking so much about the coldness, the emptiness, the loneliness and the eternal imprisonment.
Animals thought about today. Humans were the foolish ones who thought about the future even when they didn't have the means.
But now, he was in a dream.
He wondered how long he could last in this dream? If he opened his eyes, would it vanish? Or could he bask in their appearance as well?
He couldn't risk that. Not when that was the only precious thing left to him and who knew when it would come back.
190. Sword
His chest was tight.
His lungs were going to rip the dream right out of his hands.
He tried to hang on to it, and it sharpened to the point where his skin was on fire and his ears seemed to bleed, but still the breaths won't come.
And someone – unfamiliar voices, his mother's sweet tenor – were telling him to breathe.
That didn't work – it never did – but then his mother's hand was on his back and she was counting, gently.
He knew this. He remembered this. It was more for anxiety than asthma but it always seemed to work. Maybe he did have a bit of both, or maybe it was just concentrating on something else that took the edge of.
There was plastic on his face. Something clear blowing on his nose and mouth.
A nebuliser. Maybe some oxygen as well.
And his mother's hand was still on his back.
His eyes opened despite him. She was there, looking worriedly at him. There was a doctor there as well, vaguely familiar. Some nurses. Drawn curtains with different coloured stars and a moon.
He couldn't still be dreaming, could he?
He took a breath of freedom – or the dream – and coughed.
His chest was still tight, and it hurt.