Epic Magazine

“Fuck this!” screamed Carl Cat as he flung a half-eaten container of cat chow across the room.  He launched himself off the couch and on to the windowsill, where he peered meekly outside.  The street was populated, something rare when the winter chill bit as hard as it did mid-February.  The sun beat down weakly on the passersby, struggling to penetrate the filthy frozen air surrounding them.  Carl Cat’s television had disappeared, and in its place was an unsightly old dictionary.  Carl Cat opened the book, and took a long look into the mirror leaning dangerously against the dirty white wall of his apartment.  Staring deep into his own sunken, baggy eyes, he explained loudly, to his landlord’s dismay, his own life, to himself.

            “The American family will now crowd around the dictionary… every Friday night!  Progress is existence! Learn a word every day, is my new motto! Adumbrate- to illustrate a thought, and vaguely! You don’t think I’m being vague, do you? How clear could I possibly be? You wouldn’t understand the hardwiring of my mind if you rented out my brain and lived there for a semester abroad!  I must produce, to achieve! And I must define these concepts for myself before I give in to a lesser form of subsistence! How can I keep grasp of such a prodigious task?  And this- you would call it teen angst?  Consider I am a cat, before claiming such nonsense!”  With that, Carl Cat hissed and tossed a tennis ball at the mirror.  Intending to destroy the blasphemous glass slab, his surprise was heavy when the ball returned and made contact with the face of the only person he was preaching to.  Later, however, he would discover that this was not true, and that he was responsible for his landlord’s fatal stroke.

            Lying concussed on the ground, he gazed into the stucco ceiling, proclaiming, “I AM THE NOTES FROM UNDERGROUND OF COLLEGE LIFE! I AM THE DOSTOEVSKY OF PREMATURE ALCOHOLISM!”  His ankles rolled at the end of his sprawled out legs.  His Air Jordans were absent from his feet, and in their stead were old, worn Burberry loafers.  Every move his body made emphasized the bald patches in his fur, and the constant rate at which his fur fell out.  His body’s condition matched that of his living space.

            “Don’t you fucking judge me, carpet!” cried the sickly cat as he tore into the tangled, browning shag. “The system is rigged, and you know it!  I am the savior of this godforsaken town, and you know it!  I am cultured and handsome, and you know it! I know it!”

            He got himself back on his feet, stumbling in an attempt to find his balance.  The colors in the room began to fluctuate, and the ghosts he had seen in his dreams the nights before danced around the room.  He tried greeting them with simple paw gestures, but their disinterest in him could not have been more apparent.  This was made evident by their haunting coo: “We have no interest in you, cat!”

            “Why, because I was raised in the suburbs? Because I drive a Saab? A privileged upbringing can never hinder ingenuity! My weirdness is a gift from god.  My motherfucking atheism is a gift from god! How can you have so little respect for all that I stand for?  Open your eyes, and take a look at what drew me to the city! My artistic passion is starving, yet my worldly ambition is practically nonexistent! Can I not be what you once strived to be?” 

There was no response from the ghosts.  Carl Cat looked down at the empty orange pill container clenched in his paw.

“What now, ghosts? Will you forever shun me? Will I be forever uninvited to your social gatherings? Will I forever be cursed to forge my own paths? Will I meet new ghosts? Please, ghosts, answer me! Let me hear your word!”

“Sorry, cat, no room in this ghost club!” replied the ghosts in unison.

“FUCK YOU, GHOSTS!” screamed Carl Cat.  He opened his apartment door and let the ghosts filter out of the room.  After closing the door, he walked toward his couch, arms stretched forward.  Not seeing the tennis ball that had caused him similar pain earlier, he tripped and fell forward.  His outstretched arms hit the ground as hard as his chin did, knocking a trivial amount of sense into his growingly fuzzy mind.  He looked forward to see his answering machine, partially broken, on the ground.  He had 30 new voicemail messages, all from his closest friend, Chad Magnum.  He clawed at the phone in an attempt to call Chad back, hitting buttons and snapping wires.  After accidentally hitting multiple combinations of buttons, he heard Chad’s voice playing on the speaker.  As he listened, intently, his mouth started foaming, and his paw began to disappear before him.  He listened closer, trying to focus his thoughts on the drifting sounds of his friend’s voice.  He made out a bit of the message: Chad asked where Carl Cat was, how he was, why he hadn’t been in contact with him for so long.

Carl responded to the message while drifting in and out of consciousness.  “Oh, Chad, we could’ve been great! We could’ve ruled this shithole town! Oh, the mistakes I’ve made! If only you could see how much I regret ignoring politics! I am 100% positive that my vote would’ve changed the outcome of the 2008 election!”

Carl Cat began sobbing uncontrollably, and his eyes turned a deep shade of red.  His body started convulsing, and the room began to spin violently.

He muttered, “I miss you Chad; I really do.  This must all be a metaphor for something, but I’m definitely too high to know for sure what it is.”