Ball of Yarn
By
D. Anthony Brown
Copyright 2012 D. Anthony Brown
Smashwords Edition
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He sits upright in a stiff, wooden chair--a ball of marigold yarn at his perfectly poised feet--and plays a shrill, blue note on his flute. I have watched him for hours, happy to lay and do nothing underneath the ancient, moving-day scarred china hutch. The magic of his flute does nothing for me, except turn my ears forward. I slap my tail against the hardwood floor, furious and frustrated with him for resorting to magic to entice me out, angry at myself for allowing things to slide this far down hill.
I yawn and stretch my legs, purposefully poking one paw out for him to see. I hope he also notices the claws slightly extended underneath the black fur, but he is too busy with his music to notice small things. He had been too busy to notice the changes in me the last few days, even as we slept in the same bed, night after night--the way my body grew more hair, my nails became sharper, my teeth grew longer and more pointed. He is a busy man, and I a plaything with a knack for shape-shifting every month.
He had been too busy to care this time around. He touched me less as I went through the changes. It'd be easier to say goodbye if he didn't believe in the silly power of his magic flute.
To you, he is little more than a silhouette in the predawn darkness of our dining room, but through my cat's eyes I see him flawlessly. Starched white shirt under a velvet midnight-blue vest, shiny wingtip shoes with frayed laces, pinstripe pants. He thinks he looks regal, and he says so now and then to me with a wink and chuckle. Truth is, he's a skinny man in regal clothes--the shirt blouses around his pencil-thin arms in an almost feminine way, the vest one size too big for his narrow shoulders, with red-checkered suspenders hidden beneath the vest.
Once, he had been an attractive man--tall, freckled, thick brown hair, not muscular but well put together. An idealist, a poet who never wrote a line, a boy with heavy thoughts and a bleeding heart. We spent long nights talking about the proper use of magic, how others abused the craft, how we'd never do the same. A tiny part of me, even in my furry feline body, longs for those days and that man.
His transformation hurts me as much as my own shape-shifting. When I become a cat my bones ache with the fierce sensation of being torn apart and sucked inward, my heart nearly explodes from the exertion of keeping up with all the changes, and all the while my brain goes numb for a time with the pain that emanates from my spine and trickles everywhere in my body. I can deal with physical pain, I have for most of my life.
I've never learned to deal with emotional pain.
I narrow my eyes while his flute tugs at my heart. The melody changes--a soft droning trill fills the room and finds me under the hutch. Each note a pinprick, a light flashed directly in my eyes, a slap-in-the-face reminder of everything I've done wrong.
An upward series of notes brings me to the time I promised to stand by him while he set up his alchemy shop. He had showed me the business plan, the budget, the inventory. I helped him with the set up costs and attaining a loan. I was a happy, enthusiastic girlfriend.
Our relationship is now cold, icy as the downward fall of the music he plays. Where I had been unconsciously tapping my claws and thumping my tail, now my entire body froze in place, haunted by the music and the memory.
I had grown bored with his flailing business, even in the sudden upswing and the oddly unexpected constant flow of cash that bought this house. I had left him. Not because I no longer loved him, but because I was lonely when he no longer came home at night or on the weekends. He had a new lover--his lover gave him money and success, which I could never give him.
I huddle deeper in my cavern under our china. Dust-bunnies cling to my fur. The house is in serious need of a woman's touch. I lick the dust-bunnies off, and sneeze violently. My head hits the wooden frame and my eyes water from the pain in my head and the foul taste in my nose.
The music stops. The floorboards creak as he stands up. A pair of shiny shoes fills my vision, and then a pair of bony knees with hard knuckled hands holding a flute. He peeps into my sanctuary, the bags under his eyes black and blue.
"I am sorry," he says. He places his forehead in one open palm. "I did you wrong. I've been meaning to tell you that since you showed up at the door three nights ago."
I stare him down with my own half-closed eyes, a growl vibrates my throat muscles, my claws half extended. It's hard to be menacing when you're little and cute, not to mention when you're eyes are watering, but he wisely doesn't reach for me.
"The ball of yarn," he points with his flute behind him, "I didn't mean to offend you with it. I'm trying to help."
I stop growling, and position myself to pounce. I hope he doesn't see through the bluff. I hope he goes away and leaves me alone.
"It's enchanted with a pain-killer. Chew on it to make your shape-shifts easier. Probably doesn't taste very good, but I apologize for that too." He smiles, pale lips stretched taut against his square jaw.
I twitch my ears forward, my shoulder and hip muscles ache from holding my pounce. Already, I dread the pain to come when my bones decide to stretch themselves again. I wonder each time how I will manage. I dislike especially going from cat to human, mainly because my vocal chords don't allow me to whisper, "Oh God, get me through this..."
He stands up, his shoes click on the hardwood floor on the way back to the chair. A new melody floats through the too-cramped dining room, this time each note long and drawn out, excessive amount of time spent leading up to the next note, each adds something to the previous. The tune carries a long whisper of... Relief, comfort, sweet agonizing friendship. Inside my sanctuary I relax, place my head between my paws, and simply listen.
I am brought back to a time when life was simpler, but the music urges me forward and eases the troubles I see before me. I focus on the ball of yarn between his feet and the single strand curled on the floor.
I pounce at the ball. His feet disappear upward as he curls into a ball to defend against an attack not meant for him. I grasp the strand between my teeth. Whipping the yarn to and fro, I knock the chair leg, the hutch, the wall, and his ankle when he decides to get in my way.
The soreness in my muscles and bones dissipates, not gone but muted and less savage. My limbs feel light, and I jump like a kitten with a favorite toy. I spin the yarn in circles, slowly unraveling it, each layer revealing more yellow yarn to play with.
Finally, with a mess of strings I can no longer toss around, I pick up the remainder of the ball and throw it against the china hutch, a long streamer of yellow rises up and then falls back to the ground, bringing the tight center of the ball with it. I leap to catch it with my paws, my body smacking against the hutch. The dishes and cups rattle, one plate leans against the door. He gets up from his chair and sets the plate right.
I jump up on the dining table as he sits down again. He sets the flute next to me. I paw at the instrument as I settle down, watching him watch me. He knows I won't destroy his things on purpose.
"Think of it as a goodbye present," he says. "Something I should have done for you long ago, if I had known then what I know now."
I curl up into a small furry ball, my eyes half-closed. Despite myself, and despite my aversion to being a stereotypical cat, I purr.
He closes his eyes and sniffles, running his fingers through his hair. "You can stay here until you're done with your shape-shift. And you're welcome back anytime you need to hide."
He stands up, his palms held out in front of him, and tells me he's going to bed. He takes one last look at me before heading into the bedroom.
At least he has the decency to not scratch my ears.
The End
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D. Anthony Brown is the pen-name of David Brown, a writer who lives in Minnesota. He has devoted his time to life-long learning and rots his brain on computer games. He loves both folk music and heavy metal. He is an avid reader.
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