In an attempt to make this story manageable, I have broken it down into chapters, so it doesn't read as one page as long as a football field. Use these buttons to navigate through the chapters, and don't be fooled by the fact that Chapter 13 is called "The End". This story is 14 chapters long!
WRATH * VII * WRATH
Shapeshifter
Every morning, Roger Murdock would watch his sleeping mother from the doorway of her bedroom, and hope to heaven that she was finally dead. Sometimes, he knew right away that she was still alive, by being able to hear her breathe, or by seeing drool escaping the corner of her mouth. Other times he wouldn't know for sure until she woke up and bellowed for her medication. "Raw-gah! My pills!" Without her teeth, her toneless, flabby lips had difficulty forming the sound of a 'G.'
It was one of the mornings when Roger knew immediately she was still alive: he could hear air, like water spurting in rusted, rattling pipes, in her emphysema-cluttered lungs. Slowly he backed way from the door, closing it as he went. He heard the latch quietly click when it was shut completely. Just like every morning for the past twelve years, Roger knew his mother would live forever. It was useless to pray for her death -- no one in the afterlife had any more use for her than he did.
Roger went downstairs to the kitchen. He got the can of instant coffee, and the sound of the cupboard door opening and closing summoned Mother's cats. The whole army of them. Roger had to kick them out from underfoot in order to get to the stove and put the water on.
Over his usual morning coffee, Roger contemplated his life; or rather what had become of it. One of his usual thoughts: that he had already died, and been sentenced to Hell, and this was it, came and went quicker than usual on that particular morning.
Roger was stuck between the proverbial rock and the hard place. He remembered vividly, like he was watching it on videotape, the day he and his (ex)wife Linda had met with Mr. Brady (of the legendary "You Have Rights!" law firm of Ambercrombie, Fitzgerald, Brady and Schultz that advertises during The People's Court), his mother's lawyer. They faced him from across an impressively large desk; mahogany, with a shine so deep and rich you could see reflections as though from a dark mirror in its surface (Mr. Brady told them it was an antique).
"You are the sole surviving Murdock," said Mr. Brady, unfolding a bundle of contracts and forms.
"Such a proud heritage," Roger said with a sneer. He'd always hated his family.
"Yes, quite." Mr. Brady, apparently unable to detect sarcasm, went on without pause or comment. "And as the last remaining Murdock, you would have interest in your mother's estate. Lately her health has been questionable at best, and I understand you have been inquiring about the possibility of having your mother -- er, Ethel -- registered in a nursing home. But in her will there are some provisions."
"Get to the point," said Roger. It had taken him only forty-five seconds to decide he hated his mother's lawyer as well.
"I am getting to the point." But Mr. Brady seemed equally unable to detect impatience. He continued at his leisurely, disinterested pace: "Your mother has made arrangements that you be disinherited in the event of your putting her in a -- retirement facility."
"Oh, I'm going to miss that eighty bucks."
"Well, actually, the sum you stand to lose is substantially larger than that. Your father, Sebastian Murdock, had invested quite a chunk of cash in oil and communications -- invested quite wisely, in fact. When he, er -- unexpectedly passed on, all of the investments and their earnings went, by default to your mother. She, however, never had anything to do with them. She never paid attention to what they were worth. She just let them sit, ignored, accruing interest and value."
"So what are they worth?"
"About two and a half million."
"Good Lord," both Linda and Roger, like back-up singers in unison.
"Not a penny of which you will see if your mother winds up in a nursing home. It will, instead, all go to her cats."
"The cats?" Linda said. It came out of her like a cough.
"Divided evenly among the thirty-two of them."
"Looks like the old bat will be moving in with us for a while then," said Roger.
"I'm afraid that won't do either. Your mother also suggests that she be allowed to live out the remainder of her days in the home of her family, where she spent so many of the cherished hours of her youth. Again, if you fail to comply, the fortune is left to the cats."
"What?!"
"The cats?" Linda said again. She was incredulous.
"Looks like you will be moving in with the 'old bat.' " Mr. Brady developed an evil, smug, look. "I have been given the responsibility of seeing that Ethel's wishes are executed properly. I'll be checking up on you, Roger."
Well, for two and a half million dollars, Roger decided he could move back in with his mother. In fact, for that amount, Roger knew he was quite capable of eating raw pig's eyes for breakfast and washing it down with a steaming cup of his own urine. Linda however, was not a fan of the plan. Roger's mother scared her, and further, Linda's desires to be free, and have a family and house of her own, seemed to be directly at odds with their moving back into his parent's home. So Roger went alone. Linda pleaded with him to stay with her and their two year old son, Bryon, but her supplications were wasted. Because above all else, Roger was a greedy, materialistic bastard, and the mere concern of a wife and kid was not going to keep him from his money.
He said, "I'm doing this for us. So we can have a better life. Besides, how long can she live?" Roger was forty-four then; his mother had had him late in her life. She was eighty, and had not aged well at all.
Ethel Murdock was fat, bald and senile. Two days after Roger moved back home with her, she had a stroke. Roger cried, "Hallelujah!" thinking about the easiest money he had ever made. But Ethel lived on through her stroke, only losing mobility on her left side and most of her mid-life memory in the bargain. She came back home after a month of care in the hospital. From that moment on, Ethel needed constant attention, and Mr. Brady was there, paying frequent visits at irregularly chosen moments, to make sure she was getting it.
Roger would rather have breakfasted on pig eyes and urine than have to sponge- bathe his mother's wrinkled, cellulite-splotched, fish-belly white body, but it was still within the realm of things he could stand for two and a half million dollars. He also had to feed her, massage her muscles -- so as to prevent total atrophy -- and change her diapers. But the worst was sponge-bathing; bad enough it was just to look at her: to see those parts of one's parents that one knows must exist but has never seen, and has no desire to see; but then to actually have to touch those parts. God!
Roger checked into hiring a live-in nurse, but in the long run decided the cost of the venture would out-weigh the benefits. He was after all, a greedy son-of-a-bitch. The cheapest nurse he could find wanted forty grand a year, and that was out of the question.
Linda would call him every day, begging him to come home. "Nothing is worth this," she said. "Let the money go. Bryon and I need you. We need you worse than we need the money. You've always been a good husband, and father, and provider."
But he, "Relax, Linn. I'll probably be home in a week or two. She's in terrible shape. How much longer can she live?"
But more importantly, how much more could she live through? She had another stroke a year later, then a cholesterol-induced heart attack. Then she was diagnosed as having Alzheimer's disease.
Linda filed for divorce after five years. She claimed to her lawyer, Mr. Fitzgerald (from the same law firm as Mr. Brady), that Roger was cruel and insensitive. She said he had become truly obsessive, bordering on insane; demented. She won her divorce.
Seven years later, Ethel was still alive. She was no more than a flesh-toned rutabaga, but she was still a living flesh-toned rutabaga.
"Raw-gah!" she shouted. "My pills!" They were the only words she ever spoke. The only words.
The shout broke Roger's reverie. There were cats all over his legs; rubbing up against them, stretching against them, clawing them, climbing them. He kicked and thrashed his feet, sending them howling, fleeing. He went to fetch his mother's pills.
At the kitchen sink, while filling a glass with water, he saw, through the adjacent window, the paperboy riding by on his little green Schwinn. The paperboy tossed a rolled up paper as he came even with the Murdock House's driveway. Roger heard the paper thump and bounce off the front door. He decided his mother could wait for her pills. He was going to take some time for himself, and read the morning paper. It was not something he normally did either. Later he would look back on that moment and think there were some external forces at work on him.
When he opened the front door, there it was. It impacted with his mind like a catalyst. He had only just seen it when he realized he knew what he was going to do. It was a moment ranking right up there with finding the exit sign pointing the way out of a burning building.
It was a dead cat. On the doorstep, stretched out and lying on its side, its little pink tongue sticking out slightly from between its teeth... its green-yellow eyes staring, intelligent and dreamy, off into space.
Roger knelt down to pick it up. Somebody probably poisoned it, he thought. He carried it back inside. He carried it down the hall, to his mother's room. He had forgotten all about reading the newspaper.
He carried the dead cat over to Ethel's bedside. She opened her eyes at his approach.
"Raw-gah?" she said.
And then he smothered her with the body of the dead cat.
For a minute or two he was absurdly worried that she would somehow manage to live through suffocation too, but it was a needless concern.
Roger buried the cat before he called an ambulance. No use getting the paramedics there too quickly; they might somehow figure out a way to resurrect her.
Ethel Murdock died. Two days before her ninety-second birthday. The coroner found cat-hair in her throat and lungs. He said, "I've seen this kind of thing before. Once before. A cat curled up and slept on an infant's face. Killed the kid. The cat was just looking for a warm place to sleep, you see. Warm breath. See?" Roger watched the coroner's mouth as it flapped around his words. He wondered if the man ever spoke coherently.
No matter.
Roger took control of his mother's investments the very next day. Mr. Brady had slightly underscored their value; they were worth 2.8 million. It was the best day of Roger's life.
He bought a house and a red, convertible BMW. A Beamer.
Driving ninety down the turnpike with the wind tussling at his hair like a lover's fingers, Roger thought, I should've killed her years ago.
Once, the thought came to him that a mockery had been made of justice, so he laughed until the guilt went away.
He sold Ethel's beloved house for an outrageous amount, to a company that wanted to have the land rezoned for commercial development. He called the animal shelter and reported thirty-one abandoned cats. The man who answered the phone said, "We don't really have the room to keep another thirty-one cats in." But Roger said, "Fine, that's what lethal injections were invented for."
He called Linda, figuring she'd be anxious to patch things up now that Mom was out of the picture, and he was a millionaire, but Linda would have nothing to do with him. She told him, in explicit, graphic terms, what he should do with a broom handle and his rectum.
So he got an expensive hooker, from an "escort" service called 'Lady Loveliness Inc.' and paid her -- Natasha was her name -- an extra two thousand dollars to do all the things he'd wished Linda would've done when they'd been married. While reaming her from behind, Roger said, "Tell me you love me, Natasha," and she said, "It'll cost you an extra five hundred." So he said, "Fuck you," and she said, "Fine. you've already paid for that."
It was on the day that marked the passing of one full month since he had killed his mother, that Roger saw the cat. He saw it twice that day. The first time was while he was shaving -- he saw it cross the hallway behind him in the medicine cabinet mirror. But later, after unsuccessfully trying to find the creature, and having torn the house apart in the attempt, he decided it had probably just been an illusion caused by all the moisture build-up on the mirror. Yeah, that's all it was. The second time was when he was turning off all the lights and getting ready to turn in for the night. There was a lamp on in his room at the end of the hallway. He had turned it on so he would be able to see his way back to bed after shutting down all the living room and kitchen lights. And when he did turn out the last of the living room lights, there it was: a perfect feline silouhette in the doorway to his bedroom, at the end of the hall. He even heard it that time. Meow.
He went back to the kitchen and called the police. He said to the emergency operator, "There's a cat in my house. I want you to send someone over to get it out."
"Sir, are you serious? We've got important things to do here."
"Send someone over!"
"You want me to send officers out to your house to put the cat out?"
"It's not my cat!" Roger was nearly hysterical.
"Oh. By all means then. Where are you calling from?"
Police showed up an hour and forty minutes later. They, like Roger earlier, were unable to find a cat in his house. After they left -- "Don't call again." -- Roger went to bed. He reached over to his nightstand and turned the lamp off: click. And just a split second later he heard: meow.
He began to sweat. Cold.
The next night he called Lady Loveliness Inc., and requested that Natasha be sent over. He was not going to spend another night alone. Not with that cat in the house. He hadn't seen it that day but he wasn't taking any chances.
Natasha showed up at eight o'clock that night, which was considerably earlier than Roger had figured on. She came in, four inch heels tap, tap, and tossed her fur across the back of Roger's couch. She had on a black leather mini-skirt and a lime green colored shirt that looked like it had come out of a can of spray paint. Tight. Roger couldn't help but watch her nipples bounce as she walked.
"What do you want tonight? I'll warn you though -- I'm in no mood. Even a simple blow job will cost you way extra tonight." She was chewing gum. She snap-snapped it twice at the end of her statement as added punctuation.
"I just want you to sleep here tonight. Nothing else. We don't have to do anything."
"Oh," snap-snap. "Well, all right. But I didn't bring anything to sleep in."
"I can get you a T-shirt."
"Whatever. What time did you want to turn in then?" She sat down on the sofa; alluring shadows under her skirt and between her thighs.
"The sooner the better."
"It's only eight o' clock."
"I didn't sleep at all last night. I'm totally exhausted."
"Whatever."
They were in bed fifteen minutes later.
Roger asked, "Would it be all right if I hold you?"
"What am I? A teddy bear?"
"I'll pay extra."
"A hundred?"
"If you think that's fair."
"Oh, for Christ's sake. You can hold me. I won't charge you extra."
And like that, he slept; Natasha pulled in close to his body, both arms wrapped around her.
The door bell woke him up. He fumbled in the dark for the switch on the nightstand lamp. And when the light came on...
He was in bed with his mother. Fat, bald, wrinkled Ethel. She was laying on the pillow next to him, facing towards him, with her eyes wide open and watching.
Roger screamed. Like no human before him, Roger screamed.
Ethel made some garbled noise, even more difficult to understand than her regular speech, and no wonder -- she had a cat in her mouth. Fur was sticking out from between her worm-like lips. She made another guttural sound and a whole paw slipped out and landed on the pillow.
And Roger screamed even more forcefully than he had just seconds before. Breaking his own record. He rolled out of bed and hit the floor running.
"Raw-gah!" Shouted Ethel, and this time the whole front end of the cat came free, but the hind legs caught, so the cat dangled from her loose jaw like a pasta noodle.
Roger slipped when he hit the kitchen floor. He went sliding right through the room and crashing into his glass-topped dinette set. The glass hit the wall and shattered, and Roger went sprawling. Under normal circumstances, a man of his age probably would've been paralyzed by the pain of it, but fear had pushed his body into its highest gear. His adrenaline was surging. He bounced up off the floor and kept running.
The door bell rang one more time, just a fraction of a second before Roger tore the door open. Natasha was standing on his doorstep.
He took a faltering step backward, gasping, gasping.
He blacked out.
He woke up with cold water on his face. Natasha was standing over him, holding an empty glass. Gum went snap-snap between her teeth. She was wearing a short, short dress the color of a cherry licorice whip.
"Oh God," said Roger. He got to his feet, pain exploding all along his back like a chain of firecrackers. "Oh God." He fast-walked back to his bedroom. He turned on the light. The bed was made and unslept in. "Oh God." And Roger began to cry.
Natasha left. She opened the door, paused for a second on the threshold of the night, and said, "You are such a psycho," and left, and Roger never saw her again. Her heels went, tap, tap, down the sidewalk and away.
Somewhere in the house, a cat meowed.
Roger, curled into the fetal position on the floor, screamed and cried and pulled bleeding fistfuls of hair out of his head. Eventually, he slept; the sleep of a man crazy and exhausted.
He rented a hotel room the next day. From there he called a real estate agent and told him to find a house to be moved into immediately. When he hung up, he turned to face his view from the hotel room window, and there was a cat, outside the glass, sitting on the window ledge. It was a white cat with irregular shaped patches of black on its back. It was the exact cat he had smothered his mother with.
Ridiculous. It's just a cat. It's just a coincidence -- what it looks like. Roger knew he was just a crack in the sidewalk away from a nervous breakdown.
He went over to the window and took hold of the curtain draw-string. But before he pulled the curtains closed, he heard a voice.
Roger.
It was the cat. Speaking in a whisper, like rustling leaves, pronouncing his name.
There's only one way out, Roger. You know what it is. You know you can't get away from me. You can't run. I'm the displaced voice of your shriveled, withered heart. I am the embodiment of your seared, burned conscience. And where can you go, Roger, where I won't be? Everywhere you are, so too, am I. You tried to kill me Roger, but I am with you. Always.
Roger closed the curtains. His hands were shaking. He sat down on the foot of the bed.
The cat scratched at the window.
"I'm going crazy," said Roger, out loud, to himself. "Crazy."
With his hands folded in his lap, Roger quietly sat for quite some time. Eventually, the cat outside his window went away. He dared to allow himself a sigh of relief.
But then the meowing in the closet started.
* * *
Roger tried to defend himself. He killed the cat three times. Once by breaking its spine, like a branch against his knee. Once by removing its head with his Swiss Army knife. Once by dousing it with kerosene and burning it. He also disposed of its body three times. Once in a dumpster, once in a shallow grave, once in a cement block which he tossed into a lake.
But the cat came back. Just like the cat in the song.
And each time it came back it wore signs of their previous battle, so there was no mistaking it for being just another cat. The fourth time it returned, its back was bent, a jagged raw-flesh colored scar encircled its neck, its fur was burnt black brown, and little globs of hardened cement were clinging to its tail and whiskers.
Roger had locked himself in his bathroom, and the cat was right outside the door, and it was speaking to him through the crack between the door and the carpeting.
You can only find peace in death Roger. You can't live with yourself like this. With the knowledge of the inhuman things you have done.
"No."
You can only find peace in death.
"No."
Do it, Roger.
"No."
Do it.
After two days in the bathroom, sitting with his back against the door, and the cat right outside, Roger did drink a bottle of iodine from the medicine cabinet... and so found peace.
Such was often the method of the Shapeshifter.