I Am Not a Demon

WARNING!

The story is intended to be a FeelsPasta, so no scary shit this time!

The FeelsPasta
I am the good one! I am the best!

I care not what those scientists say! They're wrong! Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong!

I am the good one!

… Aren’t I?

—

I'm a nervous wreck. As long as I can remember, I've suffered from constant paranoia. If you asked my parents, they'd tell you an entirely different story. According to them, I was calm, cool, and collected as a child. They say it wasn't until I was around 12 when the way I carried myself drastically changed. I don't remember much from back then... I was walking home from a bar in my hometown of Toronto Canada, I kept stumbling a bit since I was drunk that night and couldn't drive. Last December, a storm dumped five inches of snow over the town. Everything in sight was white and frosty.

On my way to the post office, I saw a medium-sized cat, muscular and heavy for its appearance and size. Its ears are very large, open wide and upright, much like the ears of a bat. The eyes are set wide and are round with a slight slant at the upper corners -- lemon shaped, by most accounts. The widely set eyes and wide open roundness of the eyes give the cat an approachable, friendly appearance. There is no specific color expected of the eyes, and can vary. Its cheekbones, meanwhile, are prominent, giving this breed a regalness that brings to mind Egyptian cats of lore.

The whisker pads are full, as are the pads of the feet. Also, I described it as a "pot belly." This is an expected characteristic of the cat and should not be discouraged, especially since the cat has a hearty appetite and a very high metabolism.

As I approached the lamp post, I could see from a distance that it was a Sphynx. I couldn’t help feeling worried about the situation; it was bitterly cold, and the temperature was dipping into the negatives. The cat was pacing around the lamp post, almost, desperately. As if waiting for someone.

—

I’m so tired…

Where am I? I can’t tell. It’s dark and wet. It’s cold, too. Too cold. I don’t like it.

And who's this?

This feeling… Why do I have it? Why do I suddenly feel so ice cold?

Wh-why am I even here?

—

Concerned about its welfare, I decided to take it into my house and rehome it comfortably. It wasn’t ideal as I hadn’t ever had any sort of experience with pets before, but at least it would stop suffering in the cold. It would be provided with food and a place to sleep. I cut the rope that tied it then took it in, and pasted posters on lamp posts and fences around town reading ‘LOST CAT FOUND’ with additional contact details.

The cat did not like to eat very much. When it did eat, however, it swallowed its food whole in large chunks. This prompted me to cut the food up into smaller bits to prevent it from choking. During the day, it would pace around my house and jump on the furniture, meowing and purring. But during the night, it would always come into my room and sit in front of my bed. It seemed to be a well-learned habit. If I didn’t let it into the bedroom, it would continually scratch on the door until I gave in and opened it.

On the first night it stayed in my room, I was woken up by the sound. I wasn’t sure whether it was actually scratching, dragging, or scraping. I figured the source of the noise was probably my grandfather slowly dragging his scythe amongst the hardware floor, coming home from helping Old Man McGrady with farm work. I sat up a little, and the noise stopped.

I nearly had a heart attack when I saw two green, shining eyes staring right at me in the darkness. They were wide open, and glowed like phosphorus. A heartbeat later, I calmed down a little after I realized it was just the cat. But it still felt extremely uncomfortable, being pinned down by those eyes in the dead of night. I lay down and tried my best to dismiss it, constantly eyeing the silhouette perching on the foot of my bed. Even though I felt like a cowardly five year old, I didn’t want to close my eyes knowing that another pair of eyes was watching me as I slept.

Half a minute later, the eyes relaxed a little, and I saw the cat blink and move. It started to stroll naturally around the room again, so I brushed it off and went back to sleep. But every night or so after that, I would wake up to that same fading dragging noise. Every time I woke up, I would find the cat staring straight at me, but then, it would break eye contact and walk away once it realized I was conscious. I found the behavior slightly strange, but I reckoned it was just shy, and wanted to observe some human behavior rather than falling snow for a change. Besides, cats are nocturnal animals, right?

—

He looks so peaceful... Like a human work of art...

If only he'd understand, if only he'd feel my pain...

If only they'd stop, if only they'd quit, but it's always the same...

Humans, are monsters... But, somehow, this one managed to comfort me.

B-but why...? Why did he love me...?

Why does he care? I'm nothing more than a bad omen, a devil, a mistake!

But, at the same time, this one, cared...

The question is... How many more, like him, are there?

—

My house came with a cat flap in the front door; the landlord had a cat. I could let this cat in and out of the house freely. It didn’t attack the neighborhood pets or vandalize property. It didn’t bite people or bring me dead birds and rats. It didn’t even leave piss or shit around the house. My cat was a good cat.

It had been a month, but nobody had called to claim the cat. I decided to legitimately make it mine, and gave it a new name: Georgie. I wasn’t sure whether Georgie was a male or female, but it didn’t matter much to me. The act of naming him (or her) itself counted as a bonding ritual; a gateway to a beautiful friendship between two different species, forged by mutual care. From then on, Georgie was my source of comfort; when my exams weren’t going well, when I was having a bad day, or when I’d had an argument, I would always tell Georgie. Even though he was just a cat, and (probably) didn’t understand the bullshit I was going through (or even my language, as a matter of fact), I could always count on him to cheer me up.

Things were getting weird around the time Georgie had been taken in. I kept questioning everything I did, because at first, I reckoned the strange occurrences were due to my own carelessness. Some days when I arrived at home, the door would be unlocked. It seemed odd, because I always locked the door when I went out, and rarely forget to do so.

I suspected a burglary, but I second guessed myself often. Perhaps the burglar had gotten hold of my spare keys. I checked in the garage, but they were still where I put them. Furthermore, nothing had been stolen. I once left two fifty dollar notes blatantly visible on my desk, but they hadn’t been taken. That’s why I was hesitant to call the police.

The scariest fucking thing greeted me when I got up in the morning one day.

—

Ugh… I feel sick. I have a headache.

Is there anything for that? Maybe something for humans. Maybe it’d work for me, too. I have the same emotions, I’m not too different from them, after all, no matter how much it pains me to say so with some of them in the world…

Huh? Someone's entering the home?

Urgh… That sick feeling got stronger. That person smells familiar. Is it a homeless man? No, no, no, it’s not a homeless man. It feels too strange to be a homeless man.

Wait… There’s something in the air. Smells horrible. A putrid stench. It’s too wet to be a homeless man… The air isn’t like garbage. There's a wet dog smell. Someone who owns a dog or has a job walking dogs. That explains the stench, I guess…

But there’s something… behind all that. It’s so familiar, it practically drills itself into my mind… And into my fear, it seems.

Where is he? Is he… Breaking in? Is there something I shouldn’t see? Why not? I’m strong enough to handle it… I’m strong enough to handle anything.

—

A note was left beside my pillow, written in a messy, screwy handwriting I did not recognize. It read ‘We aren't saying get rid of your cat but, yeah, maybe get rid of your cat.’

I suddenly panicked, and wondered who it was. All the windows had been locked tightly before I’d gone to sleep, and I’d locked the doors too. I’d checked everything twice. There couldn’t have been an intruder. Then I remembered; there was only one other living thing in the house besides me. But surely Georgie couldn’t have written it? It must’ve been my crazy imagination! Obviously, I knew cats didn’t know English, and couldn’t write. Was I dreaming? Was I going insane?

"Shit, you must be joking." I murmured to myself.

But if it wasn’t Georgie, then who was it? Was I hallucinating? There was no evidence of a break-in. If I showed the police, they’d just think I was an attention-seeking note forger who had nothing better to do than prank them. But I was sure I had not written that note. There was no way out of this.

Hours of sweat-dripping fear later, and after checking all the windows and doors had been locked (multiple times), I told myself I would play along with it. To give myself some comfort, at least. If it was a dream, I would wake up, and curse myself for being so stupid and gullible. But for now, I would believe it, because it was the only explanation.

I spoke to Georgie in English, feeling stupid.

“Don’t scare me like that, Georgie, okay? You know I’m faint of heart.”

He just meowed back. He wasn’t going to communicate with me verbally (well, he’s a cat after all) so I figured it would be easier if I wrote a message back on the paper. It would allow for some distance.

‘Who are you? Why are you telling me to get rid of Georgie?’ I wrote. I left it beside my bed.

The next day after helping my dad pull fish nets on a boat, I finally grew the balls to tell him about the incident with the break-in. He asked if I was aright and I told him about the letter, that I thought Georgie must've wrote it. He paused for a moment, then smiled. And then he starts laughing. I didn't know why my father was having a laughing fit.

"Ah good one son, ya really thought ya cat of yours had written that letter! everyone knows cat don't have thumbs! But really, who wrote that letter?"

"Dad, that's the truth. I found it on my pillow yesterday."

He then looked at me dead in the eyes with a puzzled look, "Are ya feeling alright? Cause ya telling a bunch of weird tales."

I knew it's no use, he'll never believe me. I thought parents should listen to their kids, but I was wrong. I was on my own now.

—

Matthew…

Matthew… Matthew… Matthew…

The name is so easy to say. It rolls off my tongue as easily as mine.

I can feel it burning in my brain. I know that name. Why do I know that name…? —

Someone was convinced that my cat was trying to kill me. But I didn't believe what that asshole says. As long as he stays the fuck away from Georgie, we'll be safe. But he keeps telling me through emails saying that cats carry Toxoplasma Gondii, and that Georgie is trying to control me through the brain parasite. I screamed at my computer monitor, telling those Anti-Cat People to leave us alone, and threw my computer violently across the room, breaking it into pieces.

—

No, no, no, no, no…!

I remember, now! I remember it all, now! I don’t remember this!

I-I… I refuse to believe I am just a bad omen! I have emotions! I have thought!

I had to suffice…!

I believed them! I believed those stupid Humans! I believed they cared! I am as stupid as them for believing their charade! They care nothing about life!

They're not scientists! They're VIPERS! ALL OF THEM!

—

It's been days now, and everything went dead silent. All the threatening emails and letters stopped.

I don't know how long it's been going for, but rest assure that it won't be long till I move out of this house and move to another country. I'm packing up my stuff now, this place is filled with hatred. Every night I see people outside my home, glaring through my window with those evil eyes.

I can't stay, I had to go. It's the only way. It's the only way for Georgie to stay safe. But what if they follow me to my new home, what if something bad happens to Georgie? And how can I prove anyone that someone is stalking me?

How?

—

I remember now. Oh so vividly.

But, no matter how many times I run through it in my head… It just seems like a story.

I am Georgie. I am myself. I am no one’s Demon.

I realize I’m pushing my dear owner’s limits, but I don’t care. It’s better if someone knows what I’m thinking… I have to get it out! All the pent up anger! I can't hold it back much longer!

I am officially done giving a damn…!

I am the good one! I am the best!

I care not what the Scientists say! They are wrong! Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong!

I am the good one!

… Aren’t I?

No matter how many times I say it, I can’t convince myself it’s true…