A Collection Of Short Stories | ✔

A Cat Leapt Out

Scarlett tenderly caressed the ginger fur of her American Bobtail as she fixedly watched the raindrops speedily run down the clean windowpane. The cat purred loudly, curling itself on her lap and snuggling closer. She shamefully felt like she was a melancholic protagonist of a pretentious indie film as she slowly sipped her steaming cup of coffee, her tongue deliciously burning and lovely warmth spreading in her stomach.

Her new pleated skirt was horrendously stiff in comparison to the soft, worn-out leggings underneath like Créme brûlée- hard on top only to delightfully reveal the velvety smooth inside. There was the cat's shed hair clinging to the threads on her large, white sweater and the sleeping feline's drool wet her skirt, but she seemed unbothered as she fondly petted it.

In her twenty years of life, Scarlett forlornly never experienced the electric thrill of being blissfully young and haughtily believing the world to be conquered in the tight fists of the hands. She rigidly never allowed herself to be carried away by the tingling after-effects of intoxicating substances and raving night parties. She rarely went on adventurous road-trips, counting the mundane ones with her extended family where the wildest incident to occur was a can of Doctor Pepper spilled on her pink tank-top by her blind grandmother.

When her grandmother had peacefully passed away a couple of months later, Scarlett didn't mourn as much as she had for her pink tank-top.

As she absently flipped the pages of 'Little Women' for the hundredth time while sucking on hard, lemon candy, she dourly realised that she still felt like a fourteen-year-old girl. When she was fourteen and on the cusp of womanhood, her frail mother died from breast cancer. When she was fourteen and on the cusp of womanhood, her weary father gifted her a set of American classics and an American Bobtail to keep her from whining and occupied in the day-care centre originally meant for toddlers. When she was fourteen and on the cusp of womanhood, all the other normal kids found her sad and weird and blatantly avoided her.

When she was fourteen and on the cusp of womanhood, treacherous time halted and Scarlett found herself comfortably confined in the frozen time.

The delicate roof of her mouth hurt from too much sucking on the hard, lemon candy so she forcefully bit it, the sound of the sweet breaking resonated in her ears. The doorbell rang suddenly and the irritation from the disturbance stung her like the chafing of a prickly plant against her sensitive skin. However, she managed a cheerful intonation when she sprightly called out, "The door's open, you can come in!"

Her new next-door neighbour strutted in like she owned Scarlett's goddamn place and confidently sat on the peach loveseat sofa across from her. "I could have been a thief or a murderer, you know."

She was absurdly right then, she became a thief in Scarlett's dull life. She robbed Scarlett of her loneliness. Her comfort. Her space. Her innocence. She murdered her innocence.

"But you aren't," Scarlett quipped, smiling nervously.

"I didn't catch your name the other day."

"Scarlett---"

"Oh yeah," she interrupted fearlessly like she didn't care if she appeared rude. "I'm Rosa."

"Yeah, I remember," she said meekly and the cat stirred in her lap. Of course, she remembered Rosa. Hair like rose petals, soft and dyed red. Words like thorns, stabbing and hurting. "This is Ginger."

"I could have never guessed . . . " Rosa said sarcastically, her gaze flickering to the ginger coloured cat. Scarlett blushed shamefully and Ginger sprang on the carpeted floor, miaowing like a war cry. Rosa's nose scrunched at the trail of hair on the beige carpet and she remarked contemptuously, "Disgusting, little thing."