Why did I do it, you ask? Why is there now a corpse in the bedroom, befouling that soft, nice carpet? What did you do to deserve it? It’s quite simple, really. Just a simple tale of revenge, with a bloody, deadly end.
You went away, again. Leaving me, again, and again, like you always do. You barely even said goodbye. Just a quick caress, then you shoved me aside and walked out the door, shutting it, locking it, making it clear I was not to follow.
You didn’t tell me where you were going. Of course not. You weren’t with me, so where else good could you be?
Sure, you were no kinder nor crueler the day before. We ate breakfast. We watched television. I slept while you piddled with your instruments. I’d tried to help make lunch, but you waved me away. I tried again, but you wouldn’t let me near the sizzling meat.
You never like my help. You like to do things yourself. You want me near when you want companionship, but if I make too much racket you just chase me away. You wander off, but if I do the same, you claim to “worry.” Other times, you smother me, pulling at my hair and telling me what a mess I am. You think I’m fickle? It takes one to know one, wretch.
That’s why I did it. That’s why I left that rat on the bedroom rug. Let’s see you waltz in from a three day absence with a “Hey, kitty, kitty!” next time. I will make you fear me yet.