The Queen of Cats

Chapter 11: Bringing Me Up This Way

This chapter is dedicated to @stupidsamurai, one of the most original voices I've seen on WP in a long time. Her story has a vibrant, complex energy to it that I envy. And she's an awesome person. Awesome-writer-awesome-person combos are the best. Even better than Pineapple-Burger combos. Read her book Hellacious Emma.

"Artists use lies to tell the truth. Yes, I created a lie. But because you believed it, you found something true about yourself."
― Alan Moore, V For Vendetta

I opened my eyes.

He (it) was gone. The buildings surrounding us were smashed to bits. Rubble and pollen eddied with strange currents I couldn't feel on my skin anymore.

Karim timidly patted my hand.

I turned around. He was five again.

"You still don't understand?" he asked.

I shook my head.

He nodded.

"Well, I thought you'd understand by now. I really did."

"I wish I could." I told him.

He smiled up at me. "That's okay. Don't worry about it. Maybe not knowing will make it more fun for you?"

He held out his hand and I took it.

We walked. We walked God knew where. Away from the jungle gym and that blown up cacophony of urban destruction behind us. It smelled of him. Sickly sweet and cloying, but dead on the inside.

"Hey. Do you still have that tail?" he asked me.

I looked at it. It was rotting a bit more every time I saw it again.

"What's wrong with it?"

"I don't know what it is, really. It's some kind of representation of the state of decay. I think that's what the Yakuza man said."

"You've met him?"

"Of course. Sometime or the other I'll meet him eventually."

"What?"

"Time, treasure." he told me me, and I couldn't help but smile. My father used to call me that. "Time doesn't work like it usually does here. Memories don't either. Motivations, desires, wants, needs. All that stuff. It doesn't work like usual."

I thought about what I'd done here so far. Since I tried to kill myself on the hill. Trying not to look at the city. I was not me. Or maybe I was a me I didn't know about.

"But I only have a week, right?"

"Nostradamus was the prophet." he said. "And now you've killed him."

"I have, haven't I?"

We laugh long and hard. Like we used to.

"How are you here?" I ask him.

"I don't know. I've been here forever."

"So how long has this place been here?"

"Since you were born."

His voice was raspier. Sharper. Devoid of life.

I looked down. Nostradamus smiled up at me. He was a twitching, zombified version of himself, his features contorting occasionally into demonic grimaces, and then back to his million dollar smile.

"You're dead."

"So I am."

I looked around. We were at the park again. Overlooking the city. My vomit was where it was then, now stale and putrid. His can of tuna was knocked over. He was next to me.