Forneus

ūnus

There's blood on the floor. In splotches, unnatural looking.

Instinctively, my eyes search for Leah's motionless form. Panic takes over when I register that the couch is empty. The place that Leah has sought solace upon, for five days and five nights, without moving (or eating, or sleeping, or relieving herself).

She dead?

Good question. I asked the same thing many times, far too many times considering the lack of an answer from the very first time. I inhale deeply, before stepping further into my flat, careful not to step on the blood. It's still wet, meaning it's fresh.

"Leah," I call uncertainly. "You okay? Where are you?"

Today's supposed to be the day I bring her to the hospital. I mean, she wasn't completely catatonic, she'd respond in one worded answers - that was why I never brought her to the hospital earlier. But now, there was blood. Shit is real.

"Leah?" I call once again as I tread deeper into my flat.

A clatter arrives from my room. I rush there. The bathroom door is wide open, light from within spills out. There is a trail of crimson drops leading there. I'm scared, but I push past the fear and enter the bathroom.

Leah's standing before the mirror, hands held before her. She's covered in blood - her mouth, her hands, her cream coloured jumper.

My own blood runs cold. A guttural noise escapes my oral orifice.

"Leah," I finally manage. My voice is shakier than I intend for it to sound.

Her head turns at an unnatural pace to stare at me. She's jumpy. She blinks, she holds my stare, then she calms down.

"I'm sorry," she finally says. "I ate the cat."

My heart trepidates as I come to understand what has transpired.

"You ate Fluffy?" I ask, incredulous and shocked.

She looks confused. "I'm sorry."

I'm speechless. I mean, I want to talk but, what do I say? (It's okay? I forgive you? We can get a new cat?) Luckily she fills the silence. I'm a gaping mess, my mouth and my eyes are saucers.

"I hope you don't mind."

"I hope you don't mind?" I repeat, in shock. "Leah, what's gotten into you? Why - Why would you - you know what, don't answer that. Jesus Christ."

She winces. And then she says, "Hungry," as she rubs her stomach.

She smears blood on her cream coloured jumper in the process. There's so much blood on her hands. On her fingernails, under her fingernails, in the space where skin meets fingernails. I'm not sure if I can look at red nail polish the same way ever. There's traces of white fur too. I try not to stare.

I step backwards and out of the bathroom. Terror grips me out of nowhere. I'm tempted by a primitive urge to call the cops but what do I say, "my girlfriend ate the cat?"

They'd direct me to PETA probably. The next person that comes to mind is my mother. The one that died last February. The stench of blood and the presence of Fluffy's fur claws at my gag reflex.

I keep walking backwards until the back of my knees collide with the couch, and I fall, landing on cushioned seats.

"You're in shock," Leah's voice comes from the bathroom, through the ajar door. She's in her bra now, and she has tried her best to wash all of Fluffy's blood away. But she's still got some on her nose, her forearms, and her jeans.

It's not Leah. I know already. It looks and it sounds like Leah, but that's no Leah.

-

Two hours later, we're seated at our dining table.

Leah has changed into her NYU sweatshirt and some shorts. There's home cooked dinner in front of us. I don't know how but Leah is suddenly a culinary expert. Maybe she absorbed Fluffy's soul (Fluffy might have hidden some culinary flair up her cat soul).

"So you cook now." I comment, eyeing the roast beef and macaroni salad suspiciously.

Leah breaks into a smile, the same smile I fell in love with. "It's not that hard. I looked the recipe up online."

"Okay," I tell her. "Alright."

"How was your day?" She asks as she places a slice of roast beef on my plate. It's not any roast beef, it's herb-roasted beef with gravy that smells heavenly.

"Like the usual. Work was slow. I was kinda excited to come home and cuddle with the cat." I say, pointedly.

Leah pouts. "I'm sorry. We can get a new cat, I promise you."

"The real Leah would never say that."

A beat of silence slices the moment.

"And what would the real Leah say?"

I shrug. "She hated cats. She wanted a dog so bad."

And then I couldn't breathe. I wanted my inhaler. It was like it just dawned upon me that Leah was gone, and that my life would never be the same again.

"Where's Leah? What did you do to her?" I say as calmly as I can, but my voice comes out urgent and accusatory.

"What do you mean where's Leah?" She looks at me with wide, pleading eyes. "I - I'm Leah."

"No," I spit out, throwing my serviette down, before leaving the table in a sudden rage that has overtaken my being.