Chapter Eight
A m o s S w a n - T h e c a t
That boy. I don’t like that boy.
He thinks he knows the way of life. He thinks he can treat Sylvia however he’d like because he’s got his father’s money and a Rolex. I watch him though. How calculating he is, how his gaze shifts with emotions that don’t seem true, and down to the way he twists his rings with impatience.
This boy is bored. He’s bored because mommy and daddy have given him all that he’s asked for. He’s bored because he grew up with the finer things and never went without.
My claws drum against the bottom of my carrier and my nose pushes against the wooden grate that digs lines into my skin.
I can smell the rich cologne he wears. It doesn’t burn my nose or irritate me like the male who killed my mother.
He also doesn’t make the hair on my back lift so either he cares for my Sylvia or he’s a punk and wouldn’t really hurt her. Not like he’s saying he will.
He stares at her from his stool, his canvas pushed to the other side. His lack of interest in painting is obvious. His stare is longing and so confusing, something unwarranted settles in his gaze.
A smirk lifts the corners of his lips in thought and I can tell he feels as though he owns her. He wants to own her in some type of way I don’t understand. I feel it's like when a female cat goes into heat but I’m unsure. Humans and their odd reasons for living.
I don’t know what it is about Sylvia that he likes but I can tell he does. She calls to him like a bruise waiting to be pressed, like a bowl of milk waiting to be drunk. Yet he tortures her.
The thought alone confuses me. I remember in my younger days women wanted flowers and chocolates not faint bruises on their wrist. But if that's what she likes, so be it. This is a new generation after all.
I shall say this generation is much nicer. No more war—for now, better technology, and new adaptations. Not something I expected in my 8 years of living, yet it has felt much longer.
I shift to face Sylvia, I could stare at her all day. Her black hair cascades down her back with pin point precision and her forest eyes meet the canvas with such desperation. Her cheeks are a soft pink, either with determination or from the boy's words, who knows?
She resembles our mother so much but also looks like our father. Her slightly crooked nose and bigger lower lip is definitely from him, but her round cheeks and green eyes are from her.
I watch her dip her brush and stroke it across the uncompleted canvas.
It would take days, maybe a week to finish the piece.
It was so detailed, so precise—she has skill, more than passion for what she does.
Her creativity but his determination to fix things.
I can see both of them come out of her but also see her.
She is strong but hanging on by a thread.
A thread she doesn’t realize will break soon.
When she cried on the porch the other day I wanted to do anything to make her pain vanish, but she must experience the stages of grief.
She must understand her mother is gone and that life moves on whether or not she likes it.
I do wish I could fix it. Make her only feel happiness, but I know that’s not how the world works. That's not how it is to be a human with morality.