The simple story of a woman, a man, and a cat. Chapter 1

I want to write a simple story in a simple way.  In this story, there are a woman, a man, and a cat. The story is similar to mine, but it’s not exactly my story so please, don’t get distracted trying to figure out what is real and what is fictional. Stick to the story, it’s really easy to follow.

At the beginning, there is the cat. It’s a black cat.

The cat is walking slowly from the bathroom, where he has just done his business in the most feline and educated way, to his favorite spot for the afternoon nap. Along the way, he finds an annoying squishy obstacle lying on the fluffy, creamy carpet but, since he’s a very feline and educated cat, he manages to partially avoid it, partially walking over it. The obstacle grunts, moans, and moves.

“Stop walking over me!”

The cat continues on his way unmoved by the woman’s complaint. He doesn’t even turn to look behind his shoulders. If she doesn’t like to be walked over, she could simply don’t lie on the ground, he seems to tell himself.

When the husband comes home a couple of hours later, the woman is still there. Arms and legs are spread out between the sofa and the media’ station. The TV is off. The game console is off. The PC is off. His wife is off.

“Hi! How was your day?”

The woman moans and collects her arms and legs in a seated position.

“I didn’t do a thing.”

“That’s good! – Says the man, trying to sound sincere – At least you rested.”

“Not really. I feel stiff and tired.”

The man walks to the bedroom, takes off his rucksack, his jersey and walks back in the living room.

“I backed the bread, though, and put the chicken in the fridge to marinate. Dinner will be served in half an hour.”

She finally raises on her feet, wrapped in black as the rest of her body, and closes herself in the kitchen.

The man at the door

WORK IN PROGRESS…

You know, there was a bug in his ear. It was a sentence his wife had spoken a few minutes before. He was on the door. He had his new hat in his hand, his favorite trousers around his loins. He was ready to go outside and spend the night as he liked, but the bug was twisting in his ear.

It was the second time his wife had put a bug in his ear. The first time it happened months ago. She had dared to answer back. He had raised his hand up high to slap her in the face but then she had spoken with odd calm.

“Do it, but then don’t ever fall asleep again.”

He had paused looking her in the eye for a moment, just the time for someone to ring at their front door. He had quickly left the kitchen. When he had come back later that night, the house was dark and silent. In the bedroom, his wife was wrapped in the blankets. He had looked at the back of her head and he had raised his hand again.

“You know the price.”

“You are a fool, woman! How can you think you can beat me?”

“I don’t sleep more than four hours a day. I can do it while you are at work. But you, – she had turned towards him – you sleep soundly until the alarm goes off in the morning. Sometimes you sleep through the alarm ringing right in your ear and I must hake you for good to wake you up.”

“You’ll go to jail.”

“I am a woman. I am in jail already.”

He had distanced himself from their bed.

“But… but in jail, they’ll beat you up all the time!”

In the dark, he had seen his wife shrug her shoulders. That night, he had decided to not sleep and just surveil his wife from the little armchair in the corner. He had resisted some time, but in the morning she had woken him up with a hot cup of coffee and asked him if he wanted to call in sick for that day.

“No, better go. They’ll say I got the hangover.”

“Who cares? You didn’t sleep much last night. You could hurt yourself at the plant.”

He had looked at her through puffy eyelids. Then he had raised his hand asking for help to stand up from the chair and reach the bed, which had freshly changed sheets. He had fallen asleep immediately, too tired to worry. That morning bed linen had smelled soo good he could still remember it there on the door, with his hat in his hands.

“You don’t know what I do when you leave.”

He shrugged, put his hat on and left. But on his way to the the door and walked towards the living room. His wife had put some kind of oil in her long, curly hair and had just started twisting them into a braid. He moved towards her but then stopped and seated on an upholstered chair close to the door. He did not say a word and her neither. When her hair was done, she left the room and stayed away for a while. He asked himself if it was all there, a woman tending to her hair and some other minor beauty chores, and playing with his hat, was about to reach for the door. But some noises from the kitchen made his

THE MAN DOES NOT ENTER THE LIVING ROOM. HE WATCHES HIS WIFE THROUGH THE CLOSED WINDOW. WHEN SHE NOTICED HIM, SHE OPENS THE WINDOW A LITTLE AND TURNS BACK AT WHAT SHE’S DOING WITHOUT SHOWING TO HAVE NOTICED HIS PRESENCE THERE. THE THING GOES ON A LITTLE. THEN, THE MAN STARTS TO GO OUT THE FRONT DOOR AND ENTER FROM THE BACK DOOR, EVERY NIGHT AND DO STUFF WITH HER. THEN HE ACTES LIKE IF HE IS GOING AWAY BECAUSE THE HUSBAND IS GOING TO COME BACK, AND HE COMES BACK FROM THE FRONT DOOR.

THEN, ONE DAY THE HUSBAND PREPARES HIMSELF TO GO OUT. HE TELLS HER “I’M GOING TO BUY CIGARETTES” AND HE NEVER COMES BACK FROM THE FRONT DOOR.

ITEMS THAT MAKE THE HUSBAND:

  • THE HAT
  • A CERTAIN JACKET
  • THE POCKET WATCH???

Note about the Hades

Note: Reading again the short tale I posted on Monday (Ain’t no wise girl) I found it rather embarrassing but, at the same it, I feel it could be a nice frame for a collection of twisted, wicked, dreamlike tales. What do you think? Here is an abstract, a thought of the main character. I was thinking to make the girl a first person narrator but I am still not sure about it.

 

Sometimes I just want to cry until I am all tears and the tears run down the couch on the carpet, the tiles and their cracks. My tears flow deep in the cushions padding, entrapped there forever. They walk miles along the corridors tiled in black and white of this infinite place and out the unattainable door and down to the see. The tears squeeze between tile and tile and go through the underfloor to the underground. They wash the face of the tortured. They liquefy the dried blotches of blood. They bring new sadness to the desperation and flow and flow. They will never stop until I am done. They will never stop until I am only sadness running away from itself, dissolving into the sadness of the world.

Ain’t no wise girl

Note: usually, every Monday I post a piece about self-improving, but the other night I had a dream I could not let go off and this short story came out from it so naturally that I had to write it down and share it.

“Look away, look away! Look, away, look away…”

She kept saying to herself.

“Is it all true or just a game? Look away, look away…”

The summer was gone when, in the stormy morning, her car needed a refill of petrol and she had stopped at what seemed to be a gas station with a bizarre logo. She had just exited her car when someone had hit her on the back of the head and she had lost her senses. When she had opened her eyes, she was half naked in a cell, humid and cold, together with a dozen scared people. Some of them showed bandages on various parts of their bodies, some new and neat, some old and smeared with blood. The fourth wall of the cell, the one on the corridor, was made of bars and through that wall, she could see a cell just like the one she was held captive, with other people half naked, scared, dirty and hurt, just like her and her companions.

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