bat crashing down where a body would be if there was one attached to whoever pushed me. A man yelps in pain before he knocks me down, and the sound of footsteps on the creaky floor race toward the door. It opens and then slams closed.
I half-slide/half-crawl to the storeroom door. Tom is on his side in front of it, breathing shallowly, blood matting the fur of his tiny face and chest, his face contorted. Oh no, oh terrible. Poor Tom.
As I try to look him over without causing greater damage, he stops breathing altogether. His little body relaxes, and I know he's gone.
My chest tightens as the sobs start. My grandmother, Dan, my best friend, all gone. My father can't even show me support by coming to Granny's funeral, and finally, my kitten gets taken away.
And now there are whimpers, but they're not mine. I open my eyes, and Tom's body is changing, morphing, growing, like before. It's wrong and gross and weird, but it's mesmerizing to watch as man parts sprout out-of-proportion to cat parts, then the rest of his body catches up as what was condensed becomes uncondensed. I step back, and when the change is complete, the man from the photos—Gillian's husband—huddles there in all his masculine glory.
He looks right at me and says slowly, pleadingly, and carefully, "Say good Tom. Say good Tom. Just say it."
Then his body contracts again suddenly, collapsing back in on itself, growing fur, turning into a fluffy black ball, and there's a young kitten there again. What the?
So, the hot bum wasn't a cheese fan. And nobody wrote "6000 ton" on the vanity. And this is the third time he's told me what to say.
Alright, I'll just say it. But what am I expecting will happen?
"Good Tom."
***
The clothes I'd brought down for Gillian to see are still sitting on the table in the kitchenette. I dash in there and come out with the whole stack, placing them on the ground and pushing them toward the man, Tom—I guess I'll have to get comfortable with calling him that. Or get hauled to the nuthouse, one of the two. He's curled up into a ball just like a cat, his eyes closed. In pain? Disoriented?
"I brought you some clothes."
He opens his eyes and grabs for the robe, treating his hands like paws. He sits up and fiddles with it but can't figure out the sleeves. He looks frustrated and lowers his head, shaking it, and then lifting it and trying again. "Cat long time. A long time. Help."
I really don't want to get near him.
"Please help."
He looks so vulnerable. I grab the robe and take one of his hands, "Stand up. It'll be easier."
He stands up jerkily, balancing until the last minute with his other hand in addition to his legs.
I help him feed one arm into a sleeve and then tell him to turn so that I can reach his other hand and feed that one into a sleeve as well. From there, he manages to pull the robe on, closing it in the front and even managing to tie the belt to hold it that way.
"Kevin. It was Kevin," he says.
"I have to make a call," I say.
***
Gillian walks into the sitting room, and her eyes fill with tears when she sees Tom curled up on the couch in his bright-red robe.
"Hello, Tom," she squeaks out as she loses control of her voice, and the tears spill out over her cheeks. Then she shrugs it off, her expression hardening as her tears dry. It's like a wall just went up on the other side of her eyes.
Tom looks up at her, his own eyes misting. "Gilly. Sorry. So sorry."
She sits next to him on the couch, and he raises himself on one arm, rubbing his head against her shoulder. "Sorry, sorry, sorry," he croons, more a purr than an apology.
"I'm sorry, Gilly, but it seems like he's more cat than man right now. Or, at least, I'm assuming he wasn't like this before?"
Gilly bursts out laughing. It goes on for a long time. I figure we'll be discovered and taken away to have our brains adjusted any minute, so she might as well laugh while she can.
As she works to get herself under control, she gasps, pulling a long
I half-slide/half-crawl to the storeroom door. Tom is on his side in front of it, breathing shallowly, blood matting the fur of his tiny face and chest, his face contorted. Oh no, oh terrible. Poor Tom.
As I try to look him over without causing greater damage, he stops breathing altogether. His little body relaxes, and I know he's gone.
My chest tightens as the sobs start. My grandmother, Dan, my best friend, all gone. My father can't even show me support by coming to Granny's funeral, and finally, my kitten gets taken away.
And now there are whimpers, but they're not mine. I open my eyes, and Tom's body is changing, morphing, growing, like before. It's wrong and gross and weird, but it's mesmerizing to watch as man parts sprout out-of-proportion to cat parts, then the rest of his body catches up as what was condensed becomes uncondensed. I step back, and when the change is complete, the man from the photos—Gillian's husband—huddles there in all his masculine glory.
He looks right at me and says slowly, pleadingly, and carefully, "Say good Tom. Say good Tom. Just say it."
Then his body contracts again suddenly, collapsing back in on itself, growing fur, turning into a fluffy black ball, and there's a young kitten there again. What the?
So, the hot bum wasn't a cheese fan. And nobody wrote "6000 ton" on the vanity. And this is the third time he's told me what to say.
Alright, I'll just say it. But what am I expecting will happen?
"Good Tom."
***
The clothes I'd brought down for Gillian to see are still sitting on the table in the kitchenette. I dash in there and come out with the whole stack, placing them on the ground and pushing them toward the man, Tom—I guess I'll have to get comfortable with calling him that. Or get hauled to the nuthouse, one of the two. He's curled up into a ball just like a cat, his eyes closed. In pain? Disoriented?
"I brought you some clothes."
He opens his eyes and grabs for the robe, treating his hands like paws. He sits up and fiddles with it but can't figure out the sleeves. He looks frustrated and lowers his head, shaking it, and then lifting it and trying again. "Cat long time. A long time. Help."
I really don't want to get near him.
"Please help."
He looks so vulnerable. I grab the robe and take one of his hands, "Stand up. It'll be easier."
He stands up jerkily, balancing until the last minute with his other hand in addition to his legs.
I help him feed one arm into a sleeve and then tell him to turn so that I can reach his other hand and feed that one into a sleeve as well. From there, he manages to pull the robe on, closing it in the front and even managing to tie the belt to hold it that way.
"Kevin. It was Kevin," he says.
"I have to make a call," I say.
***
Gillian walks into the sitting room, and her eyes fill with tears when she sees Tom curled up on the couch in his bright-red robe.
"Hello, Tom," she squeaks out as she loses control of her voice, and the tears spill out over her cheeks. Then she shrugs it off, her expression hardening as her tears dry. It's like a wall just went up on the other side of her eyes.
Tom looks up at her, his own eyes misting. "Gilly. Sorry. So sorry."
She sits next to him on the couch, and he raises himself on one arm, rubbing his head against her shoulder. "Sorry, sorry, sorry," he croons, more a purr than an apology.
"I'm sorry, Gilly, but it seems like he's more cat than man right now. Or, at least, I'm assuming he wasn't like this before?"
Gilly bursts out laughing. It goes on for a long time. I figure we'll be discovered and taken away to have our brains adjusted any minute, so she might as well laugh while she can.
As she works to get herself under control, she gasps, pulling a long
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