Black Cat
Darla spent all night lying flat on her stomach on the cracked pavement of her driveway. The bizarre act would have roused the suspicion of any caring neighbors, but for Darla this was hardly an unusual circumstance. She was once again wooing a timid black kitten out from under the rusted gutters beneath the frame of the house until the wee hours of the morning. When the kitten finally felt comfortable enough to trust Darla, she wiggled her way out and cozied herself up against Darla's side, waking her up just as she was finally dozing off.
"You're number 13," Darla whispered into the kitten's head between kisses. "My lucky charm."
Darla tucked the kitten into the oversized neck of her sweater and cradled the purring monster close to her chest as she walked back into the house. Crossing the threshold, she gently stepped over the other twelve cats that meowed loudly at her entrance, waiting ever so impatiently for their breakfast.
"Haven't you all eaten enough already?" Darla inquired, surveying the middle of the living room, careful not to trip over the piles of books and bags that lined the hallway floors.
“Hm. I guess not,” She tiptoed past the angry animals as she made her way into the kitchen, a few of the feistier beasts climbing their way up her legs as she moved.
"Calm, babies, calm," Darla swiftly used her elbow to move cereal boxes off the kitchen counter and placed the newest addition—13—atop it. She picked an empty food bowl up from the floor to clean it, careful to avoid the roaches making their rounds on all the other dirty dishes in the sink.
This only made the other cats even more impatient.
"New baby first," Darla instructed, as though the fanged, furry demons could understand. She opened the doors under the sink and steadied her feet on the ledge, giving her just enough height to reach all the way up into the topmost cabinet and pulled down a can of wet food. Carefully opening the lid, she flipped her wrist and let the pate drop into the bowl with a satisfying plop. She could sense the cats licking their chops, poised for attack, but this meal was for one. Darla nudged the bowl towards 13 and clapped her hands with delight as the kitten eagerly lapped up the wet food.
"Slow down, little one, there's more where that came from. Don't want you getting too full just yet..." Darla dragged the bowl out from under the hungry kitten and placed it on the floor next to the others. Flies buzzed ferociously around her hands. The cats did not run. They did not compete for those last few wet morsels. They didn't cry nor paw nor scratch. Instead, they all huddled together and studied Darla's moves, ready to move on command.
"Now—are you ready for the main course?" Darla stared at 13, whose wide orange eyes met her gaze. The other cats, sensing what was to come, all backed up in unison. 13 rose to her hindquarters, placed her two small paws together, and moved them up and down, pleading for more.
"Of course you are. I knew you'd be my last, best hope," Darla smiled as she scooped 13 off the counter and, holding her close, moved slowly out of the kitchen and into the living room, the tribe of cats following closely, obediently, at her heels. They maneuvered carefully around all the obstacles in their path; the books, the broken chairs, the weathered newspapers, the dust bunnies, the dead mice.
Darla untucked one of her arms out from the other, carefully still cradling 13 as she swung the broken recliner decorated with loose threads and cigarette burns around to face her. She placed 13 down and backed away.
“Feast,” Darla commanded, and 13 instinctively began nibbling at the little bit of skin left on the old man’s wrist. The other cats took the little void’s lead and bit, scratched, and pulled at whatever flesh they could find. They ate as though they hadn’t had a full meal in their collective 117 lives, careful not to let any morsel, any cuticle, any bone fragment whatsoever fall out of their reach.
“I knew you’d be the one, 13,” Darla whispered to herself.
“Finally, he’ll be gone.”
