The Kill

The kitten doesn’t like me. When Dad found her this morning on the doorstep, he thought it would be a nice idea to wake me with her. But instead of a pleasant wake-up call, the kitten scratched my head. When I come back from school, it stares at me as if I weren’t a part of the family. We have decided to keep her in a crate at nighttime.

            When I get ready for bed, Dad has placed the kitten in my room. Her evil eyes are scrutinizing me.

            “Hey princess, look, you have company tonight.”

            “But cats rob little children’s breath, Dad!”

            “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve told you not to read horror books? She’s just a baby; give her a chance to get used to you.”

            I never used to be scared of the boogieman, candyman, hollow man, or even the postman, but she? This is the first time I’ve had a living creature at the end of my bed. Dad gives me a kiss goodnight, then turns off the light in the hallway.

            The kitten doesn’t make any sound until 3 a.m. I turn on the night lamp and notice that her head is stuck in between the bars of the crate.

“Shut up! You’ll wake up my parents!”

            I carefully try to push her head back into the crate.

            I don’t know what I have done, but all of a sudden, the whine stops, her eyes close, and she hangs her head down, lifeless.


            Two seconds later, she opens her eyes and pulls her head back forcefully; she continues to cry even louder.

            “Shut up! Shut up!”

            I grab something from underneath my bed and find the pair of surgical scissors that I stole from one of Dad’s co-workers. I hate this creature. I never realized that animals could even express anger or agony.

            “Shut up!”

           I stick the pair of scissors into the crate – turning and twisting violently.

            “Shut up!”  

            The sharp end of the scissors has entered the flesh. I hear a small groan and then feel no more movement. There’s blood on the scissors.

I hear no one down the hallway, no squeaking of coil springs.

It’s dark inside the crate. Touching the blood, it looks like cranberry juice from concentrate. The meow sound is still resonating in my ears; I hit my palm against my head a few times.

Before undoing the hook of the crate, I wait a little longer. Maybe the nine lives myth is real, after all.

Then, I undo the hook and hold the crate upside down, so the kitten’s body falls onto a magazine. I got her in the stomach. She is not coming back to life.

I remember Dad saying that I will make a wonderful doctor. In fact, I want to be a surgeon. Looking at the kitten’s motionless body, I feel like a veterinarian during an operation. The wound needs to be sewn. Maybe her third life will commence after the suture. I shall get thread and needles. But first, I have to sanitize my hands.


[Extract from Chapter 15 – Heart Like A Hole, 2007-2018 (c) PCD]

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