He’s not a real doctor. Don’t let him near me. Don’t let him--

[theme]

Hurts doesn’t it? You want to cut me open? Study me? Heal me? Manipulate me? Well, I cut back, doc. My claws are poison, doc. Doc? More like Duck. Because you’re a quack.

If you could understand me, you’d know that was hilarious. But you’re too busy doubled over in pain. You’ll need more than stitches. You might need a tetanus shot. Especially if you let me at that neck of yours again.

Cecil, why did you bring this guy in here? I’m sick. That’s all. It will pass. Or it won’t. But if I’m going to die like this, floating four feet off the ground in a bathroom, in the body of a mutant cat, then so be it. I’ve made whatever peace I can of that.

But don’t add the insult of allowing me to get prodded and groped by this D-minus med student. He’s not even a real doctor. He’s a veterinarian! He’s condescending too. I’m tired of everyone trying to pat my head and my ass. You should put up signs, Cecil.

Whatever.

You never listen. I talk, and you get me food or wave a feather or hug me too hard. I might be trying to explain the difference between a Mary Cassatt and an Eva Gonzalès. Doesn’t matter with you. You only hear mewls and whines. You cajole me.

Listen, I like the food. I love the catnip. Thank you, thank you, a million times thank you. You’re a benevolent guard in this prison. But I only want you to listen to me. To hear what I’m saying. To hear what I want.

Please.

###

I’m not that old, but I am. I’ve been in this body for 9 years. I think that’s old for a cat. I don’t know. I never owned a cat. Sandrine owned a cat. Don’t remember its name. It lived with us for probably a decade. I don’t know. I think it died. Or ran away. Maybe she kept it when she faked her death and left for Montauk.

How long do cats live? Maybe ask your doctor friend. He probably doesn’t know, because he got his medical degree by passing a Buzzfeed quiz. Ask him anyway. Wait till he stops bleeding, though.

[to the vet] No one lives forever, Duck! I’m living proof. I was 40 when she turned me into this. Should be nearing 50. But in cat years, what am I? 75? 90? Who knows?

[to Cecil] Even if I had lived out a full life as a human, it wouldn’t have felt long enough. Not to mention the 10 year long, or longer, decline in body function. The sore knees, the senility, the incontinence, the difficulty breathing, the irregular heartbeat, the cancer, the cancer treatments (even worse!) Maybe in this form, that decline will be quicker. Maybe today is the day. You’ve never brought a vet to try to drug me before.

I used to say “I don’t fear death,” but that was before I felt death enter me. Death isn’t a reaper with a skull face and hooded cloak. No, death has no body. It can’t be seen. But it can be felt, like a presence. Like a ghost. Like a possessor.

True horror lives in the dark places, the inscrutable shadows and black corners. You ever see a spider? Freaky. You ever turn your head and then when you look back, the spider isn’t there? Horror.

I do fear death now, but I’m working on that. Here’s where I’ve gotten. I think it’s not fear anymore, because fear is an emotion of non-understanding. I understand what death is, yet I still experience what feels like fear. Only, I don’t think that it is. I think it’s anger. Disguised as fear.

Anger at Mino. At Sandrine. For destroying what we have. I took care of her. I gave her a job. A home. The finest foods. We traveled the world together. Have you ever parasailed Sri Lanka? Swam in an infinity pool overlooking Sydney Harbor? Touched the Moai of Easter Island with your own hands?

Well, Sandrine has. Because I took her there.

And in the end she gave it up. She gave me up. Why? Because I didn’t care about Louise Bourgeois [BOO-zhwah]? That’s simply not true. I adore Louise Bourgeois. Well, I adore her work. She was… if I’m honest, I didn’t know her well.

Sandrine was jealous. Jealous of my position. Of my talent. She tried to break me. Reduce me. And I refused to kneel. So she resorted to turning me into this. She couldn’t best me on her own, so she had to use her witchery as a weapon.

Still…

There’s something I don’t understand. She didn’t simply turn me into a cat. She could have made me her little furry domesticate. Truly toppled me. Instead, she put me in this body, far away, and gave me incredible powers. My fur is mostly needle-sharp quills. My skin, hard and scaly, almost armor-like. My eyes – I think there are 8 of them – allow me to see in a 360-degree clarity that nearly shatters my mind. I sometimes have wings or tentacles. How am I even a cat? Except, I am. I see my face here in the mirror, and I have pointy ears, and little white mitten feet, and a tail like an overused feather duster.

Am I a cat just because I look like one? Because I say I am one? Am I confidently pretending that this is what I am? Like when I confidently pretended to be a museum docent, or a late night security guard. Or…. Or someone Sandrine loved.

Disguise, Cecil. I’m a master at it, even when I’m not trying.

For all of my powers, for all of my mutations, for all of my formidable appearance, though, I am stuck. Here. Four feet in the air. I can’t walk. I can’t fly. I can’t swim. I can’t even speak. Not in a way anyone understands. I have incredible defenses: sharp quills and tough skin. Yet, I am in a place no predator would ever hunt me. No prey would ever appear.

I’m a prisoner. I wait for you each day to feed me. Sometimes you pet me and talk to me. It’s patronizing, the way you do it, pushing your lip out and babbling as if to a baby. Or a cat. I’m neither. I’m Silas. And I am alone.

I mean, you are around. Sometimes the boys in sales stop by. Sometimes the management of this station comes in here. It’s rare, but they do. They’re patronizing in a different way. Unlike you and the sales staff and interns, station management can hear me, comprehend the words I say. They know my name. They know my tragic story. And they laugh. They point and say: “Tell the tale again, thief!” And I do, and they laugh again. They tell me I deserved my fate, giggling all the while.

It sounds mean, and it is. But they talk to me like a man. They don’t speak to me as if I were a child. They respect me, even if they mock me.

And, of course, there are the kittens

###

Sandrine wanted kids. I don’t think I mentioned that. I don’t like children. Didn’t like children. Not then. I’m learning though. Isn’t that important? That I’m learning?

Around 2002, she started talking about having children. She didn’t bring it up once, but over and over again. She wanted to be a mother. I did not want to be a father. That’s not the whole truth. It is a fact that I didn’t want to raise kids, but more importantly, I didn’t want her to raise kids.

You have to understand, she was brilliant at our job. I’ll admit, I could not have been successful without her. I needed her. Pregnancy and children would have ruined that. I know. There are mothers all over the world who continue their careers, their crafts, after giving birth. I’m not saying women can’t… you know. But Sandrine wasn’t all women. She was Sandrine. She was my woman.

And I would have lost respect for her, seeing her toddling about our home, belly extended, hand to her back, under the oppressive thumb of some unformed blob in her body. No one should live that way.

[hears another voice we cannot hear] What?.

[pause while he listens] Oh, is that a fact?

[to Cecil] Anissa says I’m being misogynist again. No, honey, I’m being a narcissist. I just said that women can have babies and still be very successful. I love women. My problem with Sandrine was that she wanted something for herself that I did not want for me. I wanted to control her because I believe others are an extension of me. And sometimes narcissism expresses itself as sexism.

[beat]

[to Anissa, slightly annoyed, but taking the point] Yes, and as transphobia, too. You’re right. You’re right.

[to Cecil] Anissa reminds me that n ot just women can have babies. People all along the gender spectrum have uteri. She’s a smart kid. I don’t know where she gets it.

[to Anissa] She gets it from her dad. Right, sunshine?

[to Cecil] She’s pretending not to know me again. She’s right, though, I’m a man and I had babies. I say babies, but they’re kittens. Or not kittens anymore. They’re all 8 years old at this point. Isn’t that strange, to be only one year older than your own children?

That’s Anissa right there with the tortoise shell fur. And above her, near the drop ceiling, with the tortoise shell skin is Rafael. I believe he’s the one you call Mixtape. I hated that name, but Rafael really likes it and now prefers it to his given name. And I have learned to respect that. And over by the window is Jeremiah, the one that your friend Larry Leroy comes to see every day. Larry, for some reason, calls Jeremiah “Larry Leroy” but he also calls all of us that. So I guess that’s his bit. I like Larry, though. He’s respectful. He talks to us like old friends he once had. Or maybe it’s like old friends he never had. I think he just needs people to talk to. He lives all the way out on the edge of town making his dioramas and using his metal detector.

He once found a submarine in the sandwastes. Has he told you that story, Cecil? You should go visit him more. He needs company.

Jeremiah has a great view of town from the window, so he tells us when something exciting is happening. There’s the PA in the bathroom too, so we can also hear your broadcasts. But you digress a lot. Sometimes a tad bit of exaggeration, too, if I’m being honest. And I am.

Rafa…uh Mixtape has learned to sing. He has a beautiful voice. He sings along to your weather reports every day. Mixtape really was a good name.

###

All of this to say, I may be dying. And I’m okay with that. My fear is really anger. And my anger might really be guilt. Everything is a disguise. I’m still angry at Sandrine, but as all the kids tell me, I’m probably just angry at myself, only thinking I’m angry at her. I can’t comprehend how I would possibly be so confused about my own feelings. That witch destroyed my life. And yes, I love my kids. I adore them, in fact. I take back every bad thing I ever said about children. They’re wonderful and I wouldn’t give them up for anything.

But.

My life was cut short by Sandrine. She was so petty, so self-obsessed. She essentially spit in my face. She spit in the face of everything I had ever achieved. Everything I had ever given her. She spit in th…

Okay. I’m starting to get it. I spit in her face. Right right. Point taken, Anissa.

Jeremiah says we cannot forgive others until we forgive ourselves. And he’s right. Theoretically, yes, I agree. But, Cecil, if you could for once recognize me. See me as not a cat. You can’t possibly be capable of looking directly at this body, hearing the unholy sounds I make, witnessing my literal levitation, and think “yes, this sure is a cat!” Cecil, wake up. Hear me.

I want to forgive myself, before I die. I do. But I don’t want to forgive her. Never.

She lives in the woods east of town. Larry Leroy told me of a sorcerer who dwells among the trees, who gives them sentience, who casts spells of kindness, spells of entrapment. Larry, like you, exaggerates a lot, and I didn’t think anything of this at first. But then he said a name. He said: “Mino. Like Mino-taur. Them woods are a maze.” [Mino in both cases pronounced as MY-no]

Cecil, go find her. [angry] And bring her to me. Oh, I just want to see her pretty little face and…

Hey! Stop. No. Tell him to let go of my neck, Cecil. Tell the doctor to stop. He’s poking me. [speech slowing down] He’s drugging me. He’s. Children. I love you. Will you miss me when I am….

[Weather: “Go Along / Get Along” by Erin McKeown https://www.erinmckeown.com/]

[normal voice again] You brought me chicken and rice. Real chicken and rice. Not in a can. I don’t know what to say. Well, I do. Once again, I say thank you.

My last thought as I lost consciousness was not “What happens when I die?” but “What happens to this body when I die?” Does the beast you call Khoshekh just fall to the floor, the spell broken? Or does it disappear altogether. Do I even have a physical form at all? Am I a tangible illusion? A disguise in the eyes. Or would this corpse continue to float at a fixed spot until it rotted away? Would my children have to live only feet from their dead father for the rest of their lives?

And I remember that I have moved from my spot before. I have left this prison. I helped you once, a couple of times, maybe. Something with new owners. And once there was a demonic beagle? That sounds insane. Am I making that up? But why was I able to move? I’m always trying to run free. To get out of here. To get Sandrine. It’s only when I want to that I cannot.

That’s Sandrine’s spell. She wanted me to go mad. She wanted me to feel trapped, to be saddled with children, to be under another’s control, to feel alone even when I am literally never alone.

That’s not the whole truth though. “Them woods are a maze.” So is my mind. Every dead end disguised as a path. And it is only when I accept this, when I stop being angry at the labyrinth, when I respect myself and my place, that I can truly live. She did this to me, yes, but this is what I am now. Acceptance is all I can control.

[pause]

Listen to that. Anissa is purring. I love her purr. She’s so happy here, Cecil. Jeremiah and Mixtape, too.

I resented their contentment for years, because I couldn’t understand how they could like living in this smelly, fluorescent cave. But they do. Jeremiah is gone from his spot. Look by the window. He went to go visit Larry Leroy. He can just DO that. I thought it was because these children had special powers above mine. But they don’t. I’ve left my locked position before. Remember? It was because you were in danger. Because my kids were in danger. I was able to move out of this prison because I was able to see beyond myself.

I say all that, and I’m trying to move now, but cannot. So maybe that theory is totally wrong. Or maybe the doctor’s drugs haven’t worn off yet. What the hell did he do to me? I do feel better. Groggy. But my guts don’t hurt anymore, and my eyes aren’t burning. Is the infection gone?

Will I be able to move when I’m fully healed? I doubt it. I’m still thinking of her. Of Sandrine. Of Mino. And I’m angry. I’m very angry, Cecil. And I’m trying not to be. It’s hard to change. I’m learning though. Isn’t that important? That I’m learning?

Thank you for the chicken and rice. It’s bland, but I get what you’re doing. You’re taking care of me. You don’t know who I am. Not at all. You think I’m a housecat. That’s your problem. You only see what you really want to see. Like a museum guard, you’re easily fooled by disguise.

Only, maybe it’s the other way around. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you’re right, and I am a housecat. Maybe it’s not a disguise at all. I am simply what I am.

What a horrifying thought.

And one I have to consider. [really considering it] Am I Khoshekh?

I don’t know if I’m ready to admit that just yet.

###

PROVERB: Ask your doctor about updog.