An errant cerulean-orange, striped sock. An antique bronze hairpin wedged between the leather-bound tomes on the shelf. A patch of buttery sunlight, casting ultraviolet on a forgotten letter from a friend about a toy-broom-present on the stairs. A threadbare rug, each fibre a desperate plea to keep them all together. A vase of lilies. A scaly layer of milk in the coffee mug by the radiator. Wine glasses on the table stained with the rouge of red raisins—but even more, the plush of Lily's painted lips.
Those same lips marked on shirt collars. Left on her baby’s cherubic cheek. On her husband’s neck.
Down his chest. His stomach. Elsewhere.
Sounds of fleeting, gorgeous glee.
A house cat sees things, too.
A young man playing with his godson, staring up at the moon. The husband and the godfather alone murmuring in the back garden. The wife and a man with silvery, almost opalescent scratches, reminiscing on younger years.
Nobody notices the loitering of pawed feet.
The change in smell, in spirit—there’s two now, in the woman, before she’s his wife, with red locks. Her stomach expanding. It’s making room for something marvellous and strange now; something that feels like belly rubs and cuddles. Like the soft pillow at the end of the bed the husband with glasses always leaves out and the warmth of that specific sliver of sunlight. The smell of the city versus the one of the little town they’re in now, with wards that stink of danger and fire and the end.
The godfather and the man with gleaming scars in the moonlight. The way their fingers are destined to find each other. Pressed into sides in laughter. Interwoven in love. Lips curved upwards in surrender to the crescent skyward.
The smell of the one of the moon. He smells different. The godfather and the one with glasses, too. Something animal. Something familiar. The other man that used to come around more in the city, not so much in this new place, has a weird smell as well. Something to bite. Something to sink fangs into and rip to shreds. Something that isn’t downy and cozy like the little boy’s titters when he comes to life out from Lily.
Fur balls tumbleweed across every room.
The sweat of fear. A prophecy. The brine of summer. Citrus tang and dirigible plums. Little baby Harry’s smile. Just-behind-the-ear-scratches from James. Nestling on a marital bed between two warm, scared bodies that probably want to hold each other more than they desire the cacophonous whir of purrs. The feelings of fingers lovingly stroking fur, either way.
Petting and pet names and cuddles by the fire always started with a snap!
Colder months and yellows and oranges of leaves. The man with scars, nowhere. The man that smells of something bitter and moist and canine is sullen. Eyes coloured ash instead of liquid moonshine now. Hands parted. Fingers trembling starkly, violently.
Mugs of tea unfinished everywhere. The milk in the fridge rotten. Lilies wilted. Fur clusters into corners disregarded. Cuddles still given in heaps. James and Lily holding Harry. Holding kitty. Words of affirmation whispered against the walls of the house. Sang like folk tune. More love.
So much love.
Leaves crumbling beneath the rake that James uses in the back. Applesauce and cinnamon. Clutching baby hands, screaming in delight, coaxing Lily for more. More and more. Costumes and and bonbons and gathering hope. Halloween.
A knock.
Hackles rising.
Scurried dash into the slightly ajar coat closet.
Fumbling human feet. A scream. The smell of something repulsive. Of something that isn’t soft and downy. Another scream.
Silence.
More silence.
Kitty’s own feet. Pad-pad-pad on mahogany wood. Cold air. Empty hallway. Stairs. James, glasses askew. His body. Up the stairs. Down the hall. Frigid. Fur rustling in dread. Sizzling magic. Lily—rouge lips still painted. Her body. Harry’s cries.
A house cat sees things, too.