Cats

I died five days ago. Unfortunately for me, I'm still stuck here, watching the stairwell out of very dry eyes, feeling like I ought to take a nice deep breath, only my windpipe got cut off from that fall down the stairs so I guess that's out of the question. And once in a while, I feel odd sensations. Th complete freezing cold as my body lost heat. The rigor mortus rippling through my arms and legs.

And of course, Mimsie's teeth. Eating my cheek.

I don't think she wanted to do it. Mimsie has been my best and only friend since I was a kid. She was the sweetest little kitty from the time she was a baby, and I spent an hour after work daily rubbing her and giving her food from a can. She was my only companion through changing boyfriends and useless layoffs. She was always very neat and stuck to her own food, and the occasional table scraps from me.

When I first passed away she cried for days. Two days, to be exact, if the sun rising and falling through the window was any indication. She bumped up against my legs, as if begging me to wake up. She sat near me almost as if she was mourning, right above me between my outstretched legs on the stairs. Ah, you're such a good girl, I thought, staring lifelessly up at her. Surely you'll watch over me like a good little angel.

But, unfortunately, Mimsie is a creature of instinct. And to her, dead means dead, especially if the dead creature's meat is tender and starting to smell quite appetizing after four days of having licked one's last bowl clean. So she started off on me-- first just nibbling at my fingers, then taking big chunks off of my cheeks, thighs and back. I don't feel much more than the little pinpricks, but it still feels like such an insult. I gave you everything, I thought venomously at her yesterday as she was yanking my left big toe off, and now you decide to just pick me clean for every last scrap. Lovely creature.

But I can't close my eyes. I can't even move my head to get a better view. All I can do is stare the same fixed stare I always did, thinking about how stupid it was that I was walking around in one high heel down stairs, hearing the stupid phone ring over and over again with spam calls I can't cancel. Wondering if the date I was going to meet really was the love of my life. He had such nice eyes, I remember. I wonder if he'll think how strange it was that I ghosted him after I seemed so excited to meet him. If only I could ghost him, at least I could let him know that I was inconvenienced.

But I don't take it personally. Someday soon my mom's going to think, "my, Charlene isn't returning my calls, maybe I should check on her", and she'll finally come here to look for me, and she'll see what that little twit did to me. Then they'll bury me nice and cozy in some big oak box and I can go into that long sleep I've been promised. And I can get out of this terrible rotting body, and the smells and the aches and cramps and horrible stickiness in my wrinkled gelatin eyes.

Until then, there's only one thing I can do.

Try to ignore my cat's godawful sharp teeth.