Disclaimer: SM owns Twilight. Clawing? Me. And her. And it.

A/N: It turned into a shit day. So I figured why not?

Chapter Three: Clawing

Day 2 of new.

Woke up in heaven.

My new bed.

Not alone.

There was a tiny cat curled around my head.

Figaro...

Still my favorite gift to myself.

ToothPASTE...

NOT the second.

Or even the third...

...

I like my new home.

Well... new again.

So does Figaro.

Especially the drapes.

Loves them.

I like them too, but I liked them better when he didn't.

Oh, Figaro...

My cat.

I like my cat.

Love him, in fact.

He just loves the drapes.

Climbed them more times than I can count...

Kind of annoying.

But cute as fuck.

I cut his nails.

After he made me bleed. The tenth time.

I went out and bought him a scratch post.

It sits. Unscratched.

He prefers me.

There's something okay about that.

...

Night 2 of new.

I'm restless.

Anxious, in a sense.

Why?

I don't know.

It's just... something.

Clawing at me.

Like Figaro.

But not.

Clawing...

Wanting out.

Eating at me.

From inside.

Wanting...

Something.

Needing...

OUT.

...

I couldn't sleep.

Even in my heavenly new bed.

The clawing wouldn't let me.

Wouldn't stop.

I tried to ignore it.

I couldn't.

I tried to fight it.

I lost.

I got up.

Got dressed.

Went for a drive.

Ended up in a bar.

I don't know why.

The clawing didn't specify what it wanted.

What it was trying to get at.

Get to.

It just wanted out.

This thing.

This thing inside.

That claws at me.

Tears at me.

I wish I could see it.

Know what it looks like.

I tried to talk to it...

Asked it what it wanted.

It didn't answer.

It refuses to talk.

It only claws.

It doesn't hurt...

It just... is.

Present.

There.

Here.

Hungry.

That's what it feels like.

A hunger.

For?

I don't know.

It won't tell me.

It refuses to talk.

So I wait.

...

There's a couple fighting in a booth to my left.

She's drunk.

Getting loud.

He's getting annoyed.

Quietly.

I'm trying to ignore them.

Her.

Like the clawing.

I can do neither.

She's getting louder.

So is the thing.

Inside.

I can hear it now.

"Watch."

Watch what?

"Just watch."

It's a lovers' spat.

I don't want to watch.

But I can't help but hear.

They're arguing.

About sex.

She says he wants it too much.

He says she doesn't want it enough.

She says too bad.

He says it will be.

She asks what does that mean?

He says she knows.

She says she doesn't.

He says she'll see.

She says don't threaten me.

He says stop being a prude.

She asks what does that mean? Again.

He says she knows. Again.

She says she doesn't. Again.

He says she doesn't care about his needs.

She says his needs are strange.

He says don't be a prude. Again.

She says don't be an asshole.

He says don't be an uptight bitch.

She says he can sleep in his own bed tonight. With his hand.

He says it's better than sleeping with her.

He says at least his hand gives him what he wants.

She says fuck you.

He says I dare you. Right here.

She says he's disgusting.

He says she's a bore.

She says he wants a whore.

He says YES, I DO. For an hour.

She says go find one.

He says I will.

He gets up.

Grabs his keys.

He says go find a ride.

He's leaving.

She says you wouldn't.

He says I am.

She says DON'T.

She says she didn't mean it.

He says too bad. Too late.

She says I'm sorry.

He says you are. In bed.

She starts to cry.

He laughs.

He turns his back on her.

She cries harder.

She cries don't.

He keeps walking.

Away from her.

She begs him to come back.

He doesn't.

She screams she's sorry.

She begs.

She says she will. Whatever he wants.

The door closes behind him.

She doesn't follow.

I do.

The clawing stops.

I don't need it to tell me anymore.

It knows.

I know.