The Catch Watches Me

He watches me sleep, and in the wee hours of the night when I wake up for any number of reasons, I see his silhouette at the foot of my bed. I know that if I move a muscle he will activate and begin to torment me. Some nights I'll wake up facing the wall my bed is positioned next to and cannot see him, but I know he's there as I can feel the way my mattress is weighted down at the opposite end. When the blinds are drawn shut on the windows the only light in my room comes from the Wi-Fi router which is mounted on a shelf across from my bed. I hadn't even noticed the light until he began watching me sleep. It's a small pulsing green light, something to do with network connectivity, but it reflects off of his eyes so I can see where he's looking, and it's always at me. Watching.

. . .

"He's a great cat, you'll love him!" my mother told me. "Besides, he needs a new home, Sandra just can't. . . well, Sandra has bigger issues."

"Sure," I said. Sandra was a friend of my mother's who was much older and had taken a recent fall that left her bedridden. Sandy was a woman I knew better as a child, but later in life, she was never more than a name my mother would mention when she was prattling on about church or the book club. We were certainly never close, but it did upset me when I found out what had happened. An officer performing a wellness check found her at the foot of the basement stairs in a pool of urine and her legs stiff as boards. Her hands and fingers were locked into a position that looked as if she was playing the piano and all around her body was dirty laundry. They reckon Sandy would have died later that day had she not been found. Almost three whole days on the floor. Harvey was there to keep her company though. Harvey was sitting on her chest when the officer came down. By her bedside, there is a photograph of Harvey. He’s always watching.

"Would you look at those eyes, Chuck, he's an angel," my mother said.

"Yeah, I know," I said looking at Harvey. He was a large cat with a gray coat striped with black. He was supposed to have been some sort of crossbreed between a Siamese and something else, but in reality, just looked like a cat with remarkably blue eyes. Cute, but mostly normal looking. My mother always mentioned how adorable his nose was. It was almost perfectly orange, like a carrot or something. Anytime she brought it up I couldn't help but look into his eyes.

"Chuck, at least take him while we find someone in the church that wants him, I don't think Sandra could stand if he went to a shelter and a stranger got him," my mother said, "I'd take him, but I already have three. A few weeks, tops, maybe you'll even want to keep him. I bet Sandra would like that. Maybe you could even bring him over from time to time, she’d be so happy to see him."

"Yeah, that's fine. A few weeks," I said, looking into his eyes without even realizing it. A few weeks would turn into a few months, then maybe a bit more.

. . .

Harvey’s silhouette is large for a cat, and his physique is similar to a raccoon’s that got fat from eating trash. The feline is shaped much like a watermelon. But it is this creature that sits on the edge of my bed waiting for me to wake up or to show signs that I am awake. I’m unsure why he waits for me, maybe it thrills him to watch me sleep and be vulnerable, after all, it all feels much like a game of cat and mouse.

“I’m hungry,” he says to me, his eyes almost looking neon from the pulsing light. “You don’t feed me enough.” I regard him through my half-peaking eyelids. Though he did not speak those words, I hear them in my head. It is a high-pitched voice that is distinctly bratty and draws out each word much longer than it is. “You better feed me.” Judging by the pale light being diffused through my curtains it must be around the blue-hour of the morning. His eyes soaked up the light and reflected brightly at the base of my bed. “You better get up,” he said. Everything was still dark, but I could make out his tail flicking around.

Nowadays I am lucky to sleep past 6 am, more often than not, Harvey wakes me up at around 4 am. Usually, he finds something in the room to slap or chew on, sometimes he’ll walk on my pillow and rub his gums against my nose. However, for the last week, I’ve done my best not to give. The more I give in, the earlier he wakes me up, and the earlier he wakes me up, the less I sleep. I’ve tried taking sleeping pills, but nothing works.

“You’re just a bitch,” he says, but now I hear the words aloud. “You’re just the breakfast bitch.” Harvey’s bright eyes watch me as I sit up. “I’m the boss, you’re getting up because I said so. If you don’t feed me I’m going to kill you” he says joyfully.

“No,” I say in a voice that sounds much like Harvey’s. “I’m getting up to use the bathroom.”

Harvey jumped down with a thud and followed me out of the room.

“You’re going to feed me,” I say. Did I say that?

I pause at the top of the stairs with my hands clenched onto the rails and close my eyes, below me are fifteen steps leading downstairs.

Behind me, I hear his bratty voice and can see his blue eyes in my mind. “You’re just the breakfast bitch.”

Falling down the stairs is faster than walking.