Black cat- A witch’s familiar and her revenge

I see her from the corner of my cornea. I see her devour a plate full of fresh lamb meat. I see her wipe the drool off her face, one fat-cheek at a time. She has unbuttoned her top from the top. Her cleavage, I bet, smells of sweat and metals. Her cone-hat has rolled away on the other side of the table and she burps, and farts, carelessly, way too many times in her house it’s annoying.

I look at my bowl; I am being fed hash. That’s what I am usually served. I look at the other inmates; the owl, the rabbit and the pup. We all are being ill-treated. But surprisingly, they seem okay with all that. The owl, never really talks, he blinks Pic Credit: Stumbling OverChaosand sleeps. He is just old, but not quite wise. The rabbit is too quick for his own good and the pup…well he is…just dumb. Obviously they all have issues.

I, on the other hand, have a severe distaste for non-recognition and ill-treatment. I don’t rely on the mercy of others. I hog on fresh food in her absence and sneak protein bars from the cabinet time to time and blame it on the pup. He never denies it either. He really is dumb.

The aspiration of escaping this dungeon is the only hope that drags me through most of my days. I sit quietly in the corner making plans of escape. I have even watched Shawshank Redemption and Prison Break to compromise any execution pitfalls. I see the inmates and the black hooded lady with fake nails, seeking sadistic pleasures in my quietness.

I try to showcase my powerful skills to her, almost on a daily basis. Yesterday, in an attempt to strike fear in her, I dropped a decapitated lizard’s body in her soup-bowl. In my anticipation, it clearly demonstrated what I am dangerously capable of. But in hindsight, it was a failed attempt from my end, that merely escalated as her dinner table joke. And to top it all, her other witch friends, only made some condescending remarks on my capability to scare a grown ass human being.

But I am telling you, if you saw me in the odd hours of the day, shadow-boxing in the corner, with my front paws tapped diagonally, or pulling my self up and down 300 times a day by the window pane, you’d know how dangerously capable I am. I have been planning on killing her ever since I was brought to this dungeon. I have licked her pills on a daily basis, hidden her inhaler twice or thrice in the far off cabinets, and peed on the slippery tiles, adjacent to a low-railing balcony.

But last night, I saw her boyfriend. He was cute, but not my type of cute. He had a cleft chin and a Barbara Streisand nose . I didn’t quite like it, but what caught my attention the most, was the gun in his pocket and I don’t mean it metaphorically. I have never fired a gun in my life. But tonight, I will, as soon as she is home. And if that fails, then I shall put my plan B in to action. With all the fair intentions of vengeance, I would weave around her feet. But only this time, I will do it on top of the stairs when she isn’t looking.

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