Third creepy story for October: Charity (part 1)
Here is the third creepy story for October. It's called Charity. I'll post the three parts as they are typed up.
My mother was staying for three days. I love her dearly and she loves me, but we both know our limitations, thankfully. We were like oil and water sometimes, and in terms of time, three days was the maximum amount for us to be mixing before any violent separation occurred, and that was comfortable. We knew each other. Having a pet, however, was a new subject for us. Mom eyed my cat with suspicion on the first day.
“I don’t think it likes me,” she said with a sniff as we sat at either end of the short couch with the cat perched on the back between us. ”You’ve never had a pet before. We didn’t let you have one growing up. Why now?”
I shrugged. “Remember that flood a few weeks back about 30 miles south of here? A friend at work told me the local vet clinic was taking in the displaced animals. I stopped by the store after work and grabbed a few bags of pet food to take over there. Well, they roped me into helping out. When it got to the point of me holding the worst cases while they put them to sleep, I couldn’t take it anymore.” I sighed heavily. “It was bad and I had to get out. I grabbed her up on my way through the door, smuggling her under my coat. She was so wet and miserable looking, I was afraid they would put her down, too. Turns out she was healthy.”
I massaged the cat’s shoulder lightly and she purred.
“You don’t know the first thing about taking care of something, and the litter box smell is going to upset that delicate nose of yours.” My mother sniffed again. “Although, I’ll admit it isn’t bad so far.”
“There isn’t a litter box. She doesn’t need one. She uses the toilet. I just flush her mess when I find it.”
Mom quickly adjusted her argument. “Then it’s trained. It was probably some rich person’s cat. I bet it turns its nose up at most cat foods.”
“To be honest, I haven’t given her any yet. I like tuna. She likes tuna. She likes rice, chicken, and veggies, too. I feed her mostly what I eat and she seems pretty happy.”
There was silence and I knew what Mom was thinking. If the cat was trained, then the cat already had a home. I idly stroked the cat’s back and told my mom what she wanted to hear.
“Yes, I know. I have to put up flyers and give her back to her family. I understand that. But that town was devastated. You should see it. I bet her former owners will have to rebuild. I can wait a few weeks and then start looking for them. That gives them time to settle in and have a home again. Until then, they are probably living out of a hotel, and hotels don’t take cats.”
“That’s very noble, dear. Meanwhile you will grow more and more attached to it every day.”
“Yes, Mom. I probably will.”
I changed the subject and she was wise enough to accept that she had won without hammering it home again and again. The rest of the day was uneventful and somewhat pleasant. The next two were fine. I do love my mother, after all, and she loves me. Still, oil and water.
-*-
A month later, it dawned on me that I talked to the cat as I would to a person. I would come home and greet her just as I had my old roommate. I would ask her how the day had gone, if the birds enjoyed the seed I had put out on the patio feeder, and if the evil squirrels had come calling.
Neither of us likes squirrels it seems. She arches her back and hisses when she catches sight of one. I chase them off. One chewed its way into the attic shortly after I moved in two years ago. It was very destructive and I had a fight on my hands getting it out. Thank goodness for rental insurance.
Still, as I said, it had been a month. The cat was now an integral part of my life. The longer I waited, the harder her leaving was going to be on me. I snapped a picture of her and mocked up a flyer on my computer, using the image and some text.
“Lost cat from flood in July needs to find true owner. Tri-colored, mostly white, female. Please call.”
I left out the unusual traits the cat had, like using the toilet, turning on the remote, and eating people food. That would be my way of finding her real family when they called.
The TV in the room behind me came on and I smiled. She did love playing with that remote.
-*-
By early October, the few remaining flyers I spotted on my way home were virtually unreadable after weeks of torture from wind and weather. No one left messages on my answering machine. It was strange.
I began searching through newspaper articles online while my mother (visiting again) decorated my blue couch with orange and brown Halloween pillows she had purchased at some craft fair. One had a picture of a scary black cat. It was a subtle reminder, as was her muttered comment.
“Yes,” I told her as I twisted around my computer chair to face her, “I agree. I should have looked through these a couple of months ago.”
My mother sighed. “Now how on Earth could you hear me say that when the television is at full volume? Why does it do that?” she asked, grabbing up the remote and adjusting the sound. “I’ve never seen a cat play with a remote like that.”
“Maybe she enjoys annoying you. Maybe she doesn’t like you calling her ‘it’ all the time,” I said. “And how would you know what a cat does? You’ve never had one as a pet before.”
Mom sat on the couch and adjusted the pillows behind her back with satisfaction. “My mother told me that her mother had to kill their cat because it tried to steal the breath from her little baby brother as he lay sleeping in his bassinette.”
I snorted.
She eyed me sternly. “You don’t believe a cat can steal the breath from a baby.”
“It’s not that.” I shook my head. “I can believe the cat was interested in the baby’s milk breath. No, I was just having a hard time visualizing Great Uncle Herman in a bassinette.”
I saw Mom hide a smile behind her hand before she straightened her face. “You shouldn’t judge too harshly. He has a very sensitive condition.”
“He’s nearly 6 and a half feet tall and weighs close to 250 pounds. He isn’t sensitive. He could have been a defensive lineman 40 years ago. There is nothing sensitive about him, I know Dad was scared of him.”
“You were never scared of him. Oh how he used to love it when you cooed at him as a baby.”
I frowned. “That’s just wrong. Don’t tell me things like that. I can’t believe the same man who chased off my first boyfriend is a bleeding heart. What is he now, 70? He’s supposed to be old and crotchety.”
“Oh, I don’t mean sensitive that way.” She started to put the remote down and noticed the cat’s attention, so she kept it in her hand. “No, he always had to have food done a certain way or mixed a certain way or only ate certain things. My mother, at fifteen, spent more time in the kitchen learning to cook than any of her older sisters, simply because her mother couldn’t take it anymore. He still claims he only has to touch something to his tongue to know it isn’t right. Honestly, he’s a nightmare at holidays.”
I tried not to choke. “Interesting,” I squeaked out. “Sensitive taste buds.”
“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “you seemed that way at first, as a baby. You just grew out of it. I didn’t coddle you like he was coddled. That’s what happens when you are the baby of the family, I suppose. He was so much younger than the others.”
She was wrong about my sensitivity; I never grew out of it. One of the reasons I had begged for a dog as a kid was to have something to feed her cooking to since I could barely swallow it at times. And she’s a pretty good cook, or so I’ve learned nowadays.
-*-
On October 15th, I made a decision. I was the proud, permanent owner of a cat. I told her that, too. She simply twitched her tail and meowed at me. I think she was upset because I had a date, but then that would be personalizing her responses, and I promised my mother I wouldn’t do that. The date was uneventful and I made it back early, not because my cat missed me or because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but because it had been a ‘drink only’ kind of thing.
“The coffee wasn’t bad and he can be very personable,” I told her as I stroked her back. “I might try a dinner date with this one.” I noticed she didn’t purr.
That night I had the strangest dream. I woke up convinced I had been kissed soundly and passionately. I happily snuggled up in the large warm spot in the middle of the bed and tried to remember what my nighttime Romeo had looked like, but I couldn’t.
When I met Jarrod for dinner three nights later, we had a lovely time. Still, it wasn’t as good as that night in my bed, in my dreams. I was held, I was loved, and I was kissed. I woke up aching for company. Ashamed that I had left Jarrod at the restaurant rather than let him follow me home, I decided to have him pick me up on our next date. Maybe this was the one I had waited for.
And I had waited. Unlike my friends, I decided I wasn’t going to lose my virginity over anything but love. Yeah, I have always been a little odd that way. I’m not very in step, or so I have been told.
When he brought me back from dinner five days later, we did make out on the couch, but it wasn’t what I had dreamed of. You see, he thought it was cute of me to call out to my cat when we got there, but she didn’t come to see me in the hall as usual. By the time we sat down, I was actually worried. In the back of my mind, while he was kissing me, I was obsessing about my cat. Distracted, I didn’t notice how talented his fingers were. He had me half undressed before I knew what was happening. I instinctively shoved him off of me and down onto the floor.
“Hold it,” I began.
He pulled me down on the carpet with him, pinning me in place with his larger size. His grin was charming.
“Come on,” he wheedled. “I know the signs. You were interested all through dinner. You blushed. You flirted. You can’t tell me you weren’t in the mood.”
I relaxed, even though I didn’t want to. You don’t show fear to a predator. “I was. But now I’m panicking. As much as I want you, I don’t want to ruin it,” I lied. “Maybe it’s cold feet, but I just need a little space to heat them up again. Give me time,” I said, trying to win him over without letting him know his advantage.
“Trust me,” he said, nuzzling my neck. “I know what you need.”
“Get off, Jarrod. I am saying no.”
He chuckled and nibbled my earlobe, both exciting a part of me and disgusting me at the same time. Then I heard a loud clanging sound and he nearly crushed me with his weight.
“Get off!” I yelled, shoving with all my might. I managed to free myself and get to a standing position. “Get out!”
He stumbled as if he were drunk, clutching his head. I nearly kicked him, but I let him have his dignity as he made it out the door. I slammed it shut behind him and went back to the living room.
It was at that point that I found myself in the company of a stunningly beautiful girl holding a frying pan, and she didn’t have a stitch of clothing on.
Part 2
My mother was staying for three days. I love her dearly and she loves me, but we both know our limitations, thankfully. We were like oil and water sometimes, and in terms of time, three days was the maximum amount for us to be mixing before any violent separation occurred, and that was comfortable. We knew each other. Having a pet, however, was a new subject for us. Mom eyed my cat with suspicion on the first day.
“I don’t think it likes me,” she said with a sniff as we sat at either end of the short couch with the cat perched on the back between us. ”You’ve never had a pet before. We didn’t let you have one growing up. Why now?”
I shrugged. “Remember that flood a few weeks back about 30 miles south of here? A friend at work told me the local vet clinic was taking in the displaced animals. I stopped by the store after work and grabbed a few bags of pet food to take over there. Well, they roped me into helping out. When it got to the point of me holding the worst cases while they put them to sleep, I couldn’t take it anymore.” I sighed heavily. “It was bad and I had to get out. I grabbed her up on my way through the door, smuggling her under my coat. She was so wet and miserable looking, I was afraid they would put her down, too. Turns out she was healthy.”
I massaged the cat’s shoulder lightly and she purred.
“You don’t know the first thing about taking care of something, and the litter box smell is going to upset that delicate nose of yours.” My mother sniffed again. “Although, I’ll admit it isn’t bad so far.”
“There isn’t a litter box. She doesn’t need one. She uses the toilet. I just flush her mess when I find it.”
Mom quickly adjusted her argument. “Then it’s trained. It was probably some rich person’s cat. I bet it turns its nose up at most cat foods.”
“To be honest, I haven’t given her any yet. I like tuna. She likes tuna. She likes rice, chicken, and veggies, too. I feed her mostly what I eat and she seems pretty happy.”
There was silence and I knew what Mom was thinking. If the cat was trained, then the cat already had a home. I idly stroked the cat’s back and told my mom what she wanted to hear.
“Yes, I know. I have to put up flyers and give her back to her family. I understand that. But that town was devastated. You should see it. I bet her former owners will have to rebuild. I can wait a few weeks and then start looking for them. That gives them time to settle in and have a home again. Until then, they are probably living out of a hotel, and hotels don’t take cats.”
“That’s very noble, dear. Meanwhile you will grow more and more attached to it every day.”
“Yes, Mom. I probably will.”
I changed the subject and she was wise enough to accept that she had won without hammering it home again and again. The rest of the day was uneventful and somewhat pleasant. The next two were fine. I do love my mother, after all, and she loves me. Still, oil and water.
-*-
A month later, it dawned on me that I talked to the cat as I would to a person. I would come home and greet her just as I had my old roommate. I would ask her how the day had gone, if the birds enjoyed the seed I had put out on the patio feeder, and if the evil squirrels had come calling.
Neither of us likes squirrels it seems. She arches her back and hisses when she catches sight of one. I chase them off. One chewed its way into the attic shortly after I moved in two years ago. It was very destructive and I had a fight on my hands getting it out. Thank goodness for rental insurance.
Still, as I said, it had been a month. The cat was now an integral part of my life. The longer I waited, the harder her leaving was going to be on me. I snapped a picture of her and mocked up a flyer on my computer, using the image and some text.
“Lost cat from flood in July needs to find true owner. Tri-colored, mostly white, female. Please call.”
I left out the unusual traits the cat had, like using the toilet, turning on the remote, and eating people food. That would be my way of finding her real family when they called.
The TV in the room behind me came on and I smiled. She did love playing with that remote.
-*-
By early October, the few remaining flyers I spotted on my way home were virtually unreadable after weeks of torture from wind and weather. No one left messages on my answering machine. It was strange.
I began searching through newspaper articles online while my mother (visiting again) decorated my blue couch with orange and brown Halloween pillows she had purchased at some craft fair. One had a picture of a scary black cat. It was a subtle reminder, as was her muttered comment.
“Yes,” I told her as I twisted around my computer chair to face her, “I agree. I should have looked through these a couple of months ago.”
My mother sighed. “Now how on Earth could you hear me say that when the television is at full volume? Why does it do that?” she asked, grabbing up the remote and adjusting the sound. “I’ve never seen a cat play with a remote like that.”
“Maybe she enjoys annoying you. Maybe she doesn’t like you calling her ‘it’ all the time,” I said. “And how would you know what a cat does? You’ve never had one as a pet before.”
Mom sat on the couch and adjusted the pillows behind her back with satisfaction. “My mother told me that her mother had to kill their cat because it tried to steal the breath from her little baby brother as he lay sleeping in his bassinette.”
I snorted.
She eyed me sternly. “You don’t believe a cat can steal the breath from a baby.”
“It’s not that.” I shook my head. “I can believe the cat was interested in the baby’s milk breath. No, I was just having a hard time visualizing Great Uncle Herman in a bassinette.”
I saw Mom hide a smile behind her hand before she straightened her face. “You shouldn’t judge too harshly. He has a very sensitive condition.”
“He’s nearly 6 and a half feet tall and weighs close to 250 pounds. He isn’t sensitive. He could have been a defensive lineman 40 years ago. There is nothing sensitive about him, I know Dad was scared of him.”
“You were never scared of him. Oh how he used to love it when you cooed at him as a baby.”
I frowned. “That’s just wrong. Don’t tell me things like that. I can’t believe the same man who chased off my first boyfriend is a bleeding heart. What is he now, 70? He’s supposed to be old and crotchety.”
“Oh, I don’t mean sensitive that way.” She started to put the remote down and noticed the cat’s attention, so she kept it in her hand. “No, he always had to have food done a certain way or mixed a certain way or only ate certain things. My mother, at fifteen, spent more time in the kitchen learning to cook than any of her older sisters, simply because her mother couldn’t take it anymore. He still claims he only has to touch something to his tongue to know it isn’t right. Honestly, he’s a nightmare at holidays.”
I tried not to choke. “Interesting,” I squeaked out. “Sensitive taste buds.”
“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “you seemed that way at first, as a baby. You just grew out of it. I didn’t coddle you like he was coddled. That’s what happens when you are the baby of the family, I suppose. He was so much younger than the others.”
She was wrong about my sensitivity; I never grew out of it. One of the reasons I had begged for a dog as a kid was to have something to feed her cooking to since I could barely swallow it at times. And she’s a pretty good cook, or so I’ve learned nowadays.
-*-
On October 15th, I made a decision. I was the proud, permanent owner of a cat. I told her that, too. She simply twitched her tail and meowed at me. I think she was upset because I had a date, but then that would be personalizing her responses, and I promised my mother I wouldn’t do that. The date was uneventful and I made it back early, not because my cat missed me or because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but because it had been a ‘drink only’ kind of thing.
“The coffee wasn’t bad and he can be very personable,” I told her as I stroked her back. “I might try a dinner date with this one.” I noticed she didn’t purr.
That night I had the strangest dream. I woke up convinced I had been kissed soundly and passionately. I happily snuggled up in the large warm spot in the middle of the bed and tried to remember what my nighttime Romeo had looked like, but I couldn’t.
When I met Jarrod for dinner three nights later, we had a lovely time. Still, it wasn’t as good as that night in my bed, in my dreams. I was held, I was loved, and I was kissed. I woke up aching for company. Ashamed that I had left Jarrod at the restaurant rather than let him follow me home, I decided to have him pick me up on our next date. Maybe this was the one I had waited for.
And I had waited. Unlike my friends, I decided I wasn’t going to lose my virginity over anything but love. Yeah, I have always been a little odd that way. I’m not very in step, or so I have been told.
When he brought me back from dinner five days later, we did make out on the couch, but it wasn’t what I had dreamed of. You see, he thought it was cute of me to call out to my cat when we got there, but she didn’t come to see me in the hall as usual. By the time we sat down, I was actually worried. In the back of my mind, while he was kissing me, I was obsessing about my cat. Distracted, I didn’t notice how talented his fingers were. He had me half undressed before I knew what was happening. I instinctively shoved him off of me and down onto the floor.
“Hold it,” I began.
He pulled me down on the carpet with him, pinning me in place with his larger size. His grin was charming.
“Come on,” he wheedled. “I know the signs. You were interested all through dinner. You blushed. You flirted. You can’t tell me you weren’t in the mood.”
I relaxed, even though I didn’t want to. You don’t show fear to a predator. “I was. But now I’m panicking. As much as I want you, I don’t want to ruin it,” I lied. “Maybe it’s cold feet, but I just need a little space to heat them up again. Give me time,” I said, trying to win him over without letting him know his advantage.
“Trust me,” he said, nuzzling my neck. “I know what you need.”
“Get off, Jarrod. I am saying no.”
He chuckled and nibbled my earlobe, both exciting a part of me and disgusting me at the same time. Then I heard a loud clanging sound and he nearly crushed me with his weight.
“Get off!” I yelled, shoving with all my might. I managed to free myself and get to a standing position. “Get out!”
He stumbled as if he were drunk, clutching his head. I nearly kicked him, but I let him have his dignity as he made it out the door. I slammed it shut behind him and went back to the living room.
It was at that point that I found myself in the company of a stunningly beautiful girl holding a frying pan, and she didn’t have a stitch of clothing on.
Part 2