The Seamstress

The Death of Sylvester

The woman watches as the girl stitches, her slender fingers nimble and quick. Yes, she will do, she will do wonderfully.

"Can I eat yet?" the girl whispers, her beautiful blue eyes wide with fear. The woman wanted those eyes to be her own, she so wanted to look like that girl.

"Finish the seam," the woman says. "I'm feeling generous today."

*

Sylvester continues to tail me all day; I sit in my bedroom, curled up in the sheets, waiting for the right moment as anticipation churns in my stomach.

I feel nauseous, but that's to be expected when you have to kill a cat your size--especially when said cat can talk.

I try talking to Aunt Queenie, but it's no use. She just sits there at the table or in her room, her head in her hands. "I let her go, I should have taught her faster," she keeps muttering to herself. "Poor thing, must be scared half to death..."

I don't bother to press her further. In this state, she won't be of any help; not when she's so frightened.

When evening comes I make myself a quick sandwich, watching as Sylvester eats the raw tuna from the fridge he ordered me to fetch for him. When we're finished he follows me into my room, laying down beside me as I turn off the lights.

I scoot away as far as I can, my face pressed against the wall.

Guilt hammers at my chest. I don't want to kill Sylvester. It's not because I like him; it's because he hasn't done anything to hurt me recently, or acted outwardly mean. It was the same with Quentin. He hurt me, and then he was nice. Sylvester hurt me, and now he's being nice... or not-mean.

Maybe he didn't have a choice but to help Absinthe. Maybe he would have died if he didn't.

Don't be an idiot, I scold myself. Look what he's done! Stop trying to find good in everyone and get it over with.

I take a deep breath, then turn over to look at Sylvester. His eyes bore into me as I ask, "Do you think Aunt Queenie is asleep?"

The yellow eyes narrow slightly. "Most likely," he says. "Why?"

My arms shake as I hoist myself up and get off the bed. Sparks of cold explode at the bottoms of my bare feet as they hit the freezing floor.

I swallow hard. "Coming?" I say.

It's so dark; the only thing I can see are Sylvester's eyes, two yellow orbs floating in the shadows.

"Where are you going?" he asks suspiciously. He walks behind me, carefully, as I make my way towards the kitchen.

My breath catches in my throat. "I'm just thirsty," I say, struggling to keep myself from stuttering. Stay calm, breathe...The hallway in front looks like a big gaping tunnel, or the mouth of some monster about to swallow me. I gently trail my hand along the wall, needing to feel something solid, something I know won't leap out to get me.

I can hear my own breath as I squeeze my eyes shut. I need to turn on the light. Where's the...My fingers find a small bump on the wall--the light switch. Thank God.

Murder should never be done in the dark.

The kitchen is suddenly dimly lit, freshly-washed cutlery making ominous shadows on the walls. They look like pitchforks, beasts, huge axes made for--Get a hold of yourself. Dishes can't kill you.

I turn to look at Sylvester, who stretches his mouth in a wide yawn. "Get your water and let's go back to bed," he says. "My legs are tired."

I slowly walk to the sink as my eyes roam the counters. My gaze settles on a large butcher knife by the microwave.