Short Story: Not My Cat

I wake up in the middle of the night to a small bundle of fluff resting on my hip. Mm. Looks like the cat’s come in early, I think to myself. I almost lean over to pat his head, but I stop myself.

Either you’ll wake yourself up, or you’ll wake him up and he’ll leave. Darn cats; so temperamental. So fussy.

I lay my hand back underneath the blankets and turn over. 

But I can’t turn over. Huh? I try to turn myself over, but I can’t. The cat’s probably stretched out onto my legs; he does that when he’s happy.

Well, this is a comfortable position. I could easily just sleep like this. I settle back into my pillows and rest some more.

Something’s wrong. I can’t sleep. It has to have been two hours. Usually, I fall asleep so easily…I’m usually not prone to fits of imsomnia.

I try to turn over again, but I can’t. I may as well have been glued to the bed. For the first time, my heart begins to race a little. I suck in deep breaths, trying to force myself to be calm despite the strangeness of this. It’s okay, this may just be a really realistic dream, that’s all. No big deal.

I lick my lips nervously. Yeah, that must be it. I mean, I dream about getting ready for work all the time, this is no different.

But there’s something really, truly wrong with this, and I can’t believe it took me this long to figure it out, how on earth am I this slow; my cat isn’t purring.

But he always purrs when he sleeps.

I feel my arm drift over to the cat and I prod his fur. It’s short, course and dry; it’s supposed to be long and soft and silky.

“Pal?” I ask aloud.

I feel the thing rise, and as I look into its eyes, such a frightening, orange color, the only thing I can think is, Not my cat. 

Author’s Note: As it is October, I felt the need to edit an old, (somewhat?) scary story of mine that is more black comedy than anything else. But how’d you like it? If you’d like more of my short stories in the future, like and comment, otherwise I won’t be aware. 

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