The old dog woke as daylight began to creep through the bedroom. He blinked his tired eyes. “Another day,” he thought. Something in the dog told him it was time to get up. He forced his body to move, and slowly, creakily, he got himself onto four legs. Wearily he walked over to the bedside and waited for his human’s alarm to sound. In a moment, the alarm was blaring, and the dog was nuzzling the human’s hand on the coverlet.
The dog was old, his once ginger fur sandy and gray. He walked stiffly, and was much slower than he used to be. His eyes were often tired, and didn’t see very well anymore. Many sounds got by him unnoticed. His sense of smell was still as robust as ever however, which filled the old dog with pride. Despite his arthritic joints and cloudy eyes, he still followed his human as best he could, and whenever she was out, he waited at the front window for her return.
Today, the dog kept very close to his human, standing near her feet as often as possible, and leaning on her legs whenever she stood still. He felt a need to be close to her; he worried for her, this wonderful human, and wondered what she would do without him. Who would she walk with? Who would sit with her on the couch and watch the box that lit up with the little pictures? He did not know, and worried that she would be lonely without him. So he stuck close to her side, reminding her with his presence how much he loved her.
By evening, the old dog was feeling tired. He decided to rest, and heavily laid himself on his bed in the living room. The human noticed this instantly, and followed him. She sat on the floor next to his bed, stroking his fur. The old dog breathed deeply near his human, taking in the scent of her, thankful that his sense of smell was still functioning. “I love you,” his old dog heart said. “I will miss you.” He looked up at his human, and she looked down at him, with love and sadness in her eyes. “Please take care of yourself,” he thought. “Promise me you will be ok.” Weakly, he licked her hand. She had tears in her eyes as she stroked him. “I am so tired,” he thought.
“It’s ok,” his human said aloud, as if reading his thoughts. “You can rest. Everything will be ok.”
The old dog felt his tension release at her words, and sighed deeply. The human curled up around the dog on his bed, wrapping her arms around him, and sobbed into his fur. And the old dog closed his tired eyes for the last time.
My stomach caved in with an eerie force… the effect of the last sunset I will ever see. My heart thuds inside my chest; full of longing to see more sunsets, and sunrises, and rain showers, and flowers blooming in the field, and leaves changing colors on the trees, and, and, and… The longing inside me is like a physical pain, a wound deep inside. It cannot be healed.
I sigh as I turn away from the window. Its no use looking and longing. I know there is no hope for me. I begin to pace around my cell. The cell is small, so it doesn’t take me long to cross from one wall to the other. It is stiflingly hot inside my cell, the air close and smelling of bodies and excrement. Despite the stuffiness and the heat, a shiver runs down my spine. My time on this earth has come to an end and I am not coping well.
I always imagined I would die an old lady, comfortably in my bed; close my eyes on earth and wake in heaven, as easy as breathing. I never thought I would spend my last days in a prison cell, sentenced to death for differing in my beliefs. The new queen has changed all that; now that Queen Jane is dead, it is Queen Mary on the throne. And Queen Mary has taken it upon herself to rid all England of Protestants. It is frightful, to be allowed to pursue your religion one day, and forbidden the next. And to be faced with execution… it is unthinkable, yet here I am, faced with that very thing.
My stomach clenches again, and I sit down, and then lie down, curling up into a little ball on my cot. I pray as I sob, filled with grief for the future that was wrested from me. For the children I will never have. For the journeys I will never make. For the sunsets that will continue to bless the earth that I will never see. As my sobs cease, my mind drifts into a dark and troubled sleep.
The young man paced back and forth across the room, running his fingers through his hair. He had done this so many times that his hair was standing on end, nearly completely vertical. His frustration showed in his body; his shoulders up, his neck tense, his hands flexing open and shut. A grey tabby cat watched him from the table. The cat wasn’t ruffled; he would often have these pacing spells. Abruptly, the man stopped in mid-stride and stood, staring transfixed at something on the wall. The cat studied him, and after a moment realized that he wasn’t really staring at the wall at all, but somewhere beyond the wall, at something the cat couldn’t see. Suddenly the man’s face lit up and he rushed to the table where the cat lounged on a stack of papers. He began to write feverishly.
The cat watched the man write, focused on the pen moving to and fro over the paper. The cat was used to these sorts of machinations in his human. Some days the man was quiet and peaceful, reading books and taking notes in the morning, writing methodically in the afternoon. Other days there seemed to be a bit of intensity about the man, and he wrote hurriedly, excitedly, from morning to night. Other days the man slept and slept and slept. Days like today, the man was agitated, pacing and muttering, as if something was irritating him, nagging at his mind. The cat was used to all of these moods, and could generally tell when the man woke up what kind of day it was going to be.
The cat yawned a large, comfortable, cat-yawn. Soon it would be time for the man to make himself some food, and often he shared it with the cat. Bits of bacon or fish, cheese and milk. The cat enjoyed mealtimes. Aside from tasty food, the man was attentive and communicative to the cat. He would speak to the cat about what was on his mind, and ask questions that the cat did his best to answer. But he didn’t think he ever got through to the man.
The cat loved best when the man was in the mood to read. He would pick up a book from the shelf, or a stack of papers from his desk, and settle himself in his favorite armchair. The cat would hop up and settle into his lap, turning a complete circle before lying down. Then the man would read aloud to the cat, often pausing to stop and think, and occasionally making a comment or two to the cat, before continuing. During these times, the cat would purr softly, and enjoy listening to the sound of the man’s voice. He would read with feeling, never skipping a beat, and modulated his voice to what was happening in the story. After he was finished reading, the man would stroke the cat, sitting quietly, his mind a thousand miles away in a world of his own. The cat gloried in the quiet and peace, nestled cozily in the man’s lap.
The man finished writing. He sat quietly chewing his lip for a few moments before throwing down his pen in frustration. He stood, and resumed his pacing. The cat’s stomach rumbled a bit, and the cat noticed that the light was beginning to fade. Soon it would be night, and the man would ready himself for bed, the cat following close behind. As soon as the man was in bed and relaxed, the cat would jump up to the bed and find his favorite spot in the bend of the man’s knees. When the man slept, he always slept hard and soundly, and the cat slept easily to the man’s soft, gentle breathing.
The cat never slept long at night, however. Night time was prowling time. The cat had a small door all his own, fitted snugly at the bottom of the man’s door. While the man slept, the cat would slip out through his little door, and creep around the garden. He would chase mice and insects, sit in the light of the moon and listen to all of the nightly sounds, and add his own yowls to the night. He patrolled his little area around the man’s house and garden, and often held a couple of trysts with neighboring cats. These meetings were often courteous; the cat was never much of a fighter. When it came to other cats, live and let live was his motto.
The man stopped pacing and his shoulders slumped. He shook his head with a resigned air. He looked around at the cat, actually seeing him, and nodded. He headed for the kitchen. The cat stood up and stretched, curving his back elegantly. He hopped lightly down off the table and followed the man into the kitchen.
“Whiskers, old chap, how about a spot of supper?” the man asked the cat.
“Yes please!” the cat meowed in reply.
His eyes are eager, observant, and bright. His brow is thoughtful, and flanked by unruly strands of strawberry-blonde hair. His nose is straight and full, covered in a myriad of freckles. His chin is pointed and small; the cheek bones high and round. His smile is wide and toothy; the adult front teeth protruding from the rest of the baby teeth, giving an impish air. His gaze is at once playful and intelligent. The face is energetic, curious, and thinking. The overall effect is charming and endearing, causing one to simultaneously fall in love and shake the head in exasperation.
Sarah is sound asleep. She breathes softly, barely audible above the noise of the oscillating fan in the corner. The digital clock on her bedside table blinks 5:58am. The first glimmers of a gray dawn are showing outside her window. The room is ordinary enough. A small desk under the window is littered with writing paraphernalia; notebooks, scattered bits of paper, a multitude of pens, and a small compact laptop. A large dresser sits on the opposite wall, next to a closet that reveals an avalanche of clothing inside. Across from the closet sits the bed, loaded with cushy pillows and warm blankets. On the wall opposite the window stands a very large rectangular shape draped in cloth. It sits on the floor, leaning against the wall, nearly reaching the ceiling. Whereas the rest of the room gives an air of being thoroughly lived in by a fairly untidy person, the area around the draped shape is clear of debris. A wide berth of cleared carpet space surrounds the shape. It is incongruous with the rest of the room, this tall draped thing, devoid of any of the rubbish that seems to cover the rest of the room. The clock turns over to 6:00am and music begins to play. Sarah begins to stir and wake. She reaches over to turn off the alarm and sits up in bed. She rubs her eyes and tries to wake up. All the while she is careful not to look at the draped shape against the wall. She proceeds with her morning ritual of eating breakfast, getting ready for her day, preparing for work. She takes care never to look at the looming draped shape. It takes all of her concentration to just avoid looking at it. Though she assiduously avoids giving it any attention, her thoughts roam to it; it seems to call her, “Sarah… Sarah…” She does her best to ignore it, telling herself I won’t, I won’t. Finally, she is ready to leave, and grabs her coat and her bag and walks out the door. On the front step she exhales a large breath. I did it, she thinks to herself. She smiles as she walks to work. Throughout her day, she manages to focus on the tasks at hand, without much distraction from the draped shape in her bedroom. And yet, while she is able to largely ignore it, it is still there, lurking in the back of her mind, and she knows it is waiting for her to come home. When she gets home from work, she again pauses on the front step. Her hand on the door knob, she takes a deep breath and steels herself before opening the door and walking through. She goes through the motions of making and eating dinner, and eventually preparing for bed. She pretends all is well, and that the draped shape is not calling to her, that it holds nothing for her and is no more than an item of furniture in her apartment. But in her heart, she knows she cannot hold out much longer. After she gets her pajamas on, she sits on the edge of her bed, willing herself not to pull back the drape. She tells herself that its not important, that what the shape has for her is not real, not worth paying attention to. But as she stands to pull back the covers and get into bed, she turns around and with one swift motion pulls the drape off of the shape leaning against the wall. There before her, is a large, ornately beautiful mirror. The frame is elaborately carved and covered with gold foil. The mirror itself is large and imposing. The figure Sarah sees in the glass is the same as always, and it is ghastly. The mirror does not show Sarah her flowing chestnut brown hair, but rather curved black horns. It does not mimic her beautiful green eyes, but eyes piercing and glowing with fire. The face is skull like, with taught skin, and bony features. Her lovely smile is reflected as a sneering chasm. The image in the mirror seems to laugh at her, mocking her for returning once again. It sneers at her, convincing her that this is the truth of who she is, who she will ever be. Sarah collapses on the edge of the bed, with the drape balled up in her hands, and begins to cry.
