The Invisible Cat

In "The Invisible Man" by H. G. Wells, the protagonist is, as one would guess, an invisible man. The man is a scientist who experimented with changing the refraction, reflection, and absorption of the human body so that it's invisible. Before he turns himself, however, he practices on a cat. The cat he later sets loose into London. This is the story of that cat. 

Elise and Everett Bowen were well known for their curiosity. Because of it, the twins were rarely seen without dirt, scabs, and gap-toothed smiles. They were the ones to take apart their mother's oven to see if they could put it back again. They were the ones who liked to test the strength of window panes with snowballs of varying density. They were the ones counting worms in the mud and bringing them home to show their mother. 

Their mother had learned that it was best to get them out of the house early on weekends when there was no school to contain the rascals. That was why Elise and Everett found themselves in the streets of London on a sunny winter morning, their spirits dampened after their mother interrupted them at one of their adventures. Apparently she didn't approve of the science of burning orange oil.

“I wonder where we can find more oranges,” Elise said, thinking hard with her thumb on her chin.

“More free oranges, Elise,” Everett said. “We haven’t any money. And we’ll need fire.”

“Well, markets have oranges, but they always keep such a close eye on us. D’ya suppose we could beg for an orange?” Elise asked.

“Everyone knows us. They’ll never let us have an orange for fear we’ll set their house on fire,” Everett said reasonably.

“We’d never set the house on fire. Only the orange. And we don’t need a whole orange. Only the peel. Perhaps we can find some in the bin near the market,” Elise said.

“Perhaps,” Everett nodded. The pair set off for the market at a trot as great lines of people split before them as they approached, wary of the pair of well-known troublemakers. However, only a few blocks later, Everett tripped head over heels with a loud hiss.

“Well, I’ve never heard you make that sound before. You should be more careful of your big feet, Everett,” Elise said, stopping and helping her brother up.

“I didn’t trip over them. There was something there. And I didn’t make that noise,” the boy said emphatically.

“Well, I can’t see anything you might trip over,” Elise said reasonably, gesturing to the snow dusted ground. “Wait, what are those?”

Elise and Everett knelt close to the ground, inspecting the strange impressions on the ground. “They look like paw prints,” Everett said. “See, I tripped over a cat.”

“I didn’t see a cat. So either our eyes are bad or you’re clumsy,” Elise said simply.

“It could be a white cat. Maybe it just blended in. Let’s follow the prints. Maybe Mother would let us keep it,” Everett said hopefully.

“But what about the orange?” Elise asked.

“I saw where Mother hid the oranges. We’ll just steal a few tonight,” Everett said. “But let’s go find the cat right now. We can pretend we’re explorers in the Amazon looking for the mysterious white, saber-toothed tiger!”

“Alright, but only if I’m the leader,” Elise said, taking up an imaginary gun.

“But you’re always the leader,” Everett whined.

“Because I’m best at it, I’m older, and I’m taller,” Elise said simply, before affect a deep, gravely accent. “Now keep your weapon at the ready, Everett. That man-eater could be anywhere!”

“Fine,” Everett said, taking up his own imaginary rifle and putting on his explorer hat. He crouched as Elise did, bending close to the ground. She pressed a finger to her lip and gestured down to the tracks then pointed in the direction they were going. She began to sneak along the prints as Everett followed in her wake.

Elise paused and stuck her nose in the air. “It’s close. I can smell man blood. It must have recently eaten,” Elise whispered soberly. “Don’t make a sound or it’ll attack.”

Everett nodded, and the two inched forward again as the tracks went around the corner into an alley. They followed the tracks down the thinning corridor whose tall buildings on either side cast a spooky, forest-like shadow over the twins. Everett, despite himself, was getting a little scared as Elise was continually elucidating the closeness and ferocity beast, even though he knew she was pretending.

“The tiger is afraid,” Elise whispered, as they reached the end of the alley where the tracks disappeared into the crawl space beneath the porch outside an old house. “It’s retreating to its lair. Frightened beasts are the most dangerous though. Careful of the bones, Everett. A single noise and it will eat your heart out of your chest!”

Elise got onto her hands and knees after securing her imaginary gun on her back. “Should we really go under there, Elise? I mean, it looks pretty rickety,” Everett asked.

Elise hushed him firmly, placing a finger to her lips, before whispering, “It’s Commander Elise to you, and of course it’s rickety; it was built by a beast.”

“But Eli- I mean Commander Elise, what if there are spiders?” Everett asked in a whisper.

“We are after a man-eating tiger and you are worried about spiders? Buck up, Everett. There is no turning back now,” Elise hissed. Everett blanched.

Loosening her tone, and sitting back on her heels, Elise continued, “You can wait outside, if you must, but keep a look out for the tiger.” Elise disappeared beneath the porch. There were several seconds of quiet rustling, then a screech.

“It scratched me! I’m wounded! The beast is heading your way!” Elise called.

Just then a set of paw prints with little nails appeared in the snow. They paused and seemed to look up at Everett. Then, they gave a pitiful little mew.

Very confused, Everett bent down presenting his palm to the paw prints to sniff. He felt a cold little nose touch his fingers, then something that felt very much like fur press against his hands, but he could see nothing but the paw prints.

Carefully, Everett patted the space above the paw prints. He felt more fur that was very solid beneath his finger tips and began to vibrate as he heard a purr. After feeling around the dimensions of the of the fur, Everett picked it up, cradling it in his arms, which was a very peculiar sensation as he could see nothing, but felt everything.

“Did you catch the tiger, Everett?” Elise asked, scrambling out from beneath the porch with a scratch across her face and muck on her dress. “That’s not how you hold a tiger, Everett. You have to put it across your shoulders.” Elise mimed hefting a large, limp animal and placing it on top of her shoulders.

“I’m not holding a tiger. I’m holding a cat,” Everett said.

“I’m the leader, and I said we’re on an expedition to the Amazon to catch a ferocious tiger, so stop with this cat stuff,” Elise demanded, stamping her foot.

At the sudden noise, the invisible fur in Everett arms hissed. Elise staggered back.

“How did you do that?” she asked.

“I didn’t do anything. It’s this cat,” Everett said.

“But, you’re not holding anything,” Elise said slowly with wide open eyes.

“I think this cat’s invisible. No, wait, look. I think that’s its eyes. Can you see it, Elise?” he asked, tilting the invisible creature in the light.

Elise approached it slowly, feeling toward it as she looked. As she touched the fur and looked into its eyes, she exclaimed. “I can! It’s an invisible cat. This is many times better than a man-eating tiger, Everett. But, how did it get invisible? I don’t imagine there are many invisible cats in the world.”

“Maybe it’s a ghost cat,” Everett hypothesized.

“A ghost cat? Maybe it’s from Egypt and it’s one of their gods. It must be the God of Cats, Bastet, who came from the river Nile to protect us from, from, from,” Elise paused, thumb to chin thinking what could be endangering the lives of her brother and herself.

“Martians!” Everett exclaimed.

“Yes, this is Bastet who came to protect us from Martians. She seems hungry though. We should go home and get her some milk,” Elise said. The plan of action decided upon, the two children walked back to their home carrying their invisible cat.

“I told you stay out until supper,” their mother said after seeing them home so early.

“We found the god Bastet who going to protect us from Martians,” Elise said factually, directing their mother’s attention to the bundle of what appeared to be nothing in Everett’s arms. “She’s hungry. We need milk.”

I was a true sign of the children’s precocious imaginations that their mother did not question their story. It was only last week that they had brought home the Imam of Arabia who looked suspiciously like Everett’s friend William. “Alright you two, but no one in this house is allowed to touch the matches besides me,” their mother admonished.

“Yes, Mother,” the twins intoned, before being let into the house.

“And you best take a bath, Elise. You’re filthy!”

“Yes, Mother. You can get Bastet milk, Everett,” Elise said before jumping upstairs to run a bath.

Surprised at her daughter’s good behavior, their mother quickly fetched a glass of milk for Everett.

“What about Bastet?” Everett asked.

Everett’s mother smiled. “But of course. I couldn’t forget our honored guest.”

She retrieved a saucer from the cupboard and presented it to Everett who opened his arms to the floor to let Bastet down before placing the saucer down nearby. He carefully poured some of his own milk into the saucer and sat back into his chair.

“Mr. Collin sent me a letter. He says you are having trouble in math, Everett,” his mother said calmly.

Everett dropped his chin to his chest, looking at the table determinedly. “The numbers just get jumbled up in my head, Mother. I try, but the numbers won’t listen,” Everett said glumly.

“Well, I think we’ll just have to get you extra practice. Mrs. White from next door said her Tommy made flash cards for his math problems. I think we’ll have to do the same.”

“Yes, Mother,” he said softly.

A large ruckus rang out from above as Elise jumped down the stairs, all but sopping wet, but looking marginally cleaner.

“Elise you’re leaving puddles everywhere!” their mother exclaimed.

Elise looked behind her, apparently only just realizing she was wet. “Oh, I didn’t notice, but I wanted to check and make sure Bastet liked her milk. Oh look how hungry she was!”

Elise pointed down to the ground where the invisible bundle of fur was lapping a now empty saucer. Instead, a puddle of milk hovered several inches off the ground where the cat’s stomach would be. Their mother looked down, open-mouthed, then promptly fainted.

The twins looked at each other.

“So, do you think she’ll let us keep her?” Everett asked with a hopeful smile.

Normality Reality Morality

Sometimes, I think I over think things. Even the simplest ideas will be disassembled into their composite parts in my mind until I am left with nothing but a discombobulated blips of consciousness. This is especially true when it comes to life. One thing about not holding to one religion is that you miss out on that moral compass. You have to find your own. Sometimes what you find is happy and blissful. Other times it's not as great.

However, what I've come to the conclusion of is that life is simply what you make it. It doesn't have any inherent purpose (or even worth), it's solely what you pursue and decide what matters. Each person's perception of life is different, meaning that reality exists differently for each person. There is no absolute, only relative positions. (Side note: in this month's issue of Discover magazine there's an interesting article about a physicist who is out to disprove Einstein. One of his tenets is there is no absolute background for space. Instead, things can only be measured with respect to each other. Using this idea, he's re-proved Newton's Laws. So, maybe this 'everything is relative' theory holds in many instances).

Morality and Normality are entwined
Close as lovers
What is good is wonted
And we want what is good

They talk of good and bad
As if there was some external measure
But we have only our brains
Cells, cultured in culture

Some argue, what is good
Is good for all
or most people
or them alone

But what is it that is good?
A full belly?
A whole heart?
A feeling of contentment?

Wires and chemicals could give you that
Enough Loritab and Valium
To block out bad thoughts
Is that good?

Or what about someone
Giving you a path to goodness
Telling you this or that is good
Giving you a messiah to reach for

Is that good?
Even if they tell you lies
A smile is a smile
When you look down from nirvana

Morality is a lie
Reality is a lie
Neurons fire to whisper secrets
Only we can hear

For when it comes down to it all
We don’t search for truth
None exists
We search for succor

Her

To me, almost every romantic song sounds creepy ("If I was invisible, I could just watch you in your room."). I guess the line between obsession and love can be thin. So, I thought I would write a short story about that idea, as is my wont.

I saw her first at the airport. She wore a dark suit and a crease in her brow as she stared up at the monitors displaying flight information. She glanced down at her ticket, then up at the board again, with one fist clutched around a small bag she carried. It’s funny, how the memory is engraved in exacting detail in my mind. I can see the pale green and blue patterned tiles beneath her mary janes. I can see the man buying a sandwich at Panera Bread behind her as he barked into his cell phone. I can see a child swinging on his mother’s arm above her shoulder. I see those pale lips, the lower slightly curled under the upper as she tugged at it with her teeth. And her brown irises, so dark that only occasional rays of light could brighten them beyond blackness.

I don’t know what it was that made her so prominent, so unforgettable, but the moment I saw her, I knew I could not lose her. I wanted to touch her arm, caress that tawny cheek, whisper into that curvaceous ear. But, I could do none of those things. I could only stare, gears turning rapidly in attempt to find some way to accomplish my desires.

She felt my eyes on her. I could tell by those fleeting glances beneath her long, midnight eyelashes. She turned to leave.

“What time is it,” I blurted, attempting to add a few more precious seconds of her presence. She wore a gold watch that was too big for her tiny wrist. She lifted it to her eyes, unaware that the time was not only displayed on the monitor we had just been staring at but on a large face clock above the aforementioned Panera Bread.

“6:23,” she informed me incorrectly after glancing down to her wrist. It was 4:39. She had misinterpreted the watch hands as she was not used to a face clock. The yellow was tarnished, which meant that the watch had to be a family heirloom handed down if she was so inept at using it. It was her father’s, judging by the size. And, by the way she clutched at it, her father had been important to her, but was now dead.

“Thanks,” I said breathlessly as she quickly walked away. I turned around, as to not alarm her that I was watching her, but I could not ignore the soft clack as her shoes impacted the ground. She was tired and walking heavily. It must have been a long day.

It would be a longer one for me. I didn’t know her name or where she was from. All I had was her face, her voice, and three numbers, but I would find her. I would know her, as I knew I must.

It was not so difficult. I could narrow down cities based on a departure time after 6:23, one displayed in the middle board of the gate information, and one with a gate larger than B23. Three cities fit the bill.

She was an academic, by her bearing and the untastefully heavy suit she wore. She had been interviewing for a position, as she was too young for much else and her eyes betrayed her uncertainty.

There were thirteen universities in those three cities, and I scoured through them all. I looked through every picture, eyes scanning for those distinctive eyes and pale lips. Days passed, but I did not hunger for sleep or food when my soul yearned for her alone.

She came up in a crowd. There was a lecture given by a political candidate, and she stood in the background with a t-shirt with Schrodinger’s cat on it. She was an undergraduate physics major then. While the photo did not list her name, the physics department page did list on their graduating seniors which included ten women. Seven of them had pictures that were not her. The other three were still mysteries.

Two were going to graduate school. One was going to medical school. The pre-medical society had a web page displaying a photo of all seniors applying. It was barely two inches tall and included forty people. However, those thirty-seven pixels that made up that face let me know I had found her.

It did not list what medical school she had decided to attend, however, I knew whatever it was, I would have to be there with her as soon as possible.

Waking from a daze, I found a new flight home, and immediately afterwards enrolled in a university. The next year and a half passed in a blur. I took more classes than any advisor wished to let me. I wheedled my way into classes without the required pre-requisistes. I studied until I collapsed, then studied more. I aced the MCAT, received astounding letters of recommendation, and applied to only one medical school, the one I now found displayed her dark eyes on their list of first-year students.

I received an invitation to interview, and I practiced for it with reckless abandon. I researched all the admissions committee, learning what personas they looked for and how to gain their respect.  I fine-tuned my body language, learning how to seamlessly shift personalities to fit better with who I was talking to.

I arrived at the school all but breathless. The other applicants and I were introduced to many of the students, but not her. The only glance I caught of her was in the lecture hall where she studiously scribbled into a notebook on the first row. She was right there, barely a hundred feet in front of me. And, within a few months, we would be fellow students. I would know her.

My interview went perfectly, as I knew it would. I had my acceptance a few weeks later. Within a few months, I was there with her.

As she was a year farther along, we shared none of our classes. However I planned spontaneous meetings a few times a week. I would observe her with her friends. I would read into her thoughts. I felt her heart beat in mine at every turn. I saw how she smiled when she was sad, how she squeezed her toes when she upset, how her eyes lit up when she was happy. I saw that although her friends called her the robot with good will, her eyes clouded slightly when they denounced her as emotionless. I knew she felt, but did so carefully and fearfully.

I learned and read her favorite books. I watched her favorite movies and plays. I learned how to mountain bike, like she did. I learned how to paint like she did. I espoused her same political ideals. I spoke of a universal force of humanity, like she did. I became like her.

I learned how to play the guitar, since she expressed the desire to learn. I learned how to speak Mandarin, like she wished to learn. I became what she wanted to be.

And then, slowly and carefully, I inched into her social circle. I smiled at all the right times, gave compliments I could see penetrated her to her core, needled jokingly to see that contrary smile as she needled me right back, and then I invited her to a dinner and a movie that I knew she would want to see but hadn’t heard of.

We talked long after the movie, and she went home. She said she had an anatomy test and needed to study. I lied to her and said I had a friend who had made up notes for the test from a few years ago. I gave her twelve pages of study notes I had worked on for the last week.

I called her after her big test in anatomy later that week. She took me out for ice cream and told me to thank my friend. I said I would. We held hands. Her flesh entwined in mine. Her skin so soft and close, and warm like the breath of angels.

We spoke for a long time, as we talked medicine and life.  I could see something new in her eyes when she looked at me. She recognized that I was the perfect fit for her, but I knew any quick move would send her fleeing. Instead, I thanked her. She went home.

Then we went hiking over a long weekend. I explain the flora and fauna I had studied for the sole purpose of describing it to her. She was enthralled, and she concentrated deeply on each factoid with that same wrinkle in her brow when she stared up at the monitors three years ago.

It was at the peak of the mountain, with the sun shining down on us, that she sat close to me. Sweat shone on her face as her cheeks flushed a pure pink. Her eyes were lit from within, rendering them beautifully copper. She looked at me meaningfully, as our conversation reached a lull.

Then, quickly, she placed her lips to my cheek. The wind had dehydrated the pair of lips, leaving them rough against my bare skin, but the motion was as tender as newly shooted grass. She retreated from the kiss just as swiftly as she entered it, flushing red. I turned to her, and pressed my lips to her cheek without a moment's hesitation.

We both smiled goofily as we held each other hands and proclaimed our romantic maturity that of a middle schooler’s with self-effacing mirth, as I knew she would need.

Months and years elapsed as we grew closer, inching together with machine-like precision. We both went into surgery, her neurosurgery and I, cardiac. I helped her apply to residencies, promising to meet her next year.

We e-mailed often when she left and visited each other with every holiday. When I was matched to the same hospital as she to do my residency, we decided we should move in together. By the time she finished her residency, we decided to get married. By the time I finished mine, we were.

We practiced in the same hospital, passing each other in the halls with special smiles sometimes as we headed  off to here or there. But there was something that was missing. I knew we must have a child together.

She was opposed, as I knew she would be. Neurosurgery was enough to fill a person’s plate without a child, but I knew what had to be. So, I worked slowly. I mentioned other people’s children. I suggested that her mother call her off and ask about grandchildren. I talked about how great it would be to have another person like her in the world. I talked about how we could both care for the child, and she would only miss a small amount of work for delivery.

She beat me back at all attempts, furiously at first, but then less vehemently. Then, as she began to develop a solid practice and the stress of her life died down, she relented.

Now, I watch her breathe in sleep as her swollen stomach rises and falls like a tide. The moonlight dances in her raven hair. Her eyelashes cast shadows on her rosy cheeks. I let my hand linger against her flesh, feeling the warmth. I realize now that she is mine. More than a decade had past since I realized I wanted her, and now, I have her, heart and soul. And our child.

I got her, as I knew I would.

I rise from the bed silently. She does not notice, still smiling sweetly in her dreams. I walk calmly to our kitchen, already stocked with baby bottles and child-proof drawers. One such drawer I open and pull out a gleaming filleting knife. I check the silver edge with my thumb, drawing a red pool from the digit. The thin metal is as sharp as death.

I walk back to the bedroom. My thumb drips with every few paces, leaving a trail of blood as I go. The red impacts the bamboo parquet floors with a force that sent tendrils flying out to the eggshell walls and capped electrical outlets. Their steady arrival acts as a metronome to my measured steps.

Despite myself, I am breathing quickly. My heart beats faster and faster. I did not think of this conclusion, but I now realize it’s the only ending to be had. Romantic. Poetic. Tragic. She would understand. She was always so picky about endings in movies and books; she needed catharsis, character development, and change to feel satisfied.

I linger at the door for a moment. Her hands rest over the bulge of the belly, embracing her unborn child. I wonder if she dreams of her, with that gentle smile on her face of nothing less than tranquil peace. Despite her protestations, I knew her soul is that of a mother.

I take a step closer. I feel the knife in my palm like an extension of my heart. It beats in turn with my rapid pulse. It is no use trying to calm myself now, not when I am so close.

I lean over the bed and I kiss those tender lips for the last time. She does not wake, but smiles further. Then, I raise the knife.

As I place it, those dark eyes open in abject horror. They are wider than I had ever seen eyes reach. They look, without comprehension. That little crease in her brow is there, like all those years ago. I cannot look away from those black eyes and the blood spreads across her, bubbling up like a  mountain spring.

Then, I collapse. I cannot stand anymore. She stumbles from the bloody bed, grabbing for the phone. She dials 911 and holds it with her shoulder as she leans over me the best she can with her wide belly.

She holds her hand over my neck, attempting to staunch the blood that will not be stopped. She may not be a cardiac surgeon, but she knows I have severed my cartoid artery and jugular vein. She could do nothing.

She repeats one letter sentences. No. Why. Please. Sam.

I look up at her. It won’t be long. My peripheral vision darkens. Sounds mute. Already, she is receding, as I fall back into darkness. Everything fades away.

I can’t speak, but I still I move my lips to form one sentence. “Because of you, Isidora.”

Rising

Inspired by a close friend's story -

Someone cut me
Cut right through the bone
Left me alone
Can’t stand on my own

I let him see
Everything inside
Scars I survived
Because we entwined

He just smiled
I thought I was safe
He came, a wraith
To my secret place

He destroyed all
I had a bubble
With hopes, no trouble
He left me rubble

Broken and lost
I could not stop tears
No time, just years
I ran from my fears

How long I fled
Couldn’t catch a breath
The pain was fresh
Each step was a test

Then, I stopped
It’s not who I am
To crack like a dam
To run bedlam

Inhale, Exhale
Before him, I lived
With dreams, a kid
I pulled back the lid

Healing is pain
I oft thought of him
His grin broke limbs
But can’t make me dim