We Don't Need These Happy Endings.
Chapter 1
A young woman stumbled through the dark, narrow alleyway in the New Jerseyan slums. Her hair was dark as the night around her, and almost blended into her surroundings, except for the few thin strands which clung messily to the sides of her face with sweat. These snake-like, damp strands stood out in extreme contrast from her skin, which was so pale that she would remind any spectator of a walking corpse. The ghost-girl was clothed in a strapless black dress that went down to her knees. It had a gaping gash in the cloth across her hip, exposing more of her ghostly skin, which was smudged with soot. A cat dark as the ghost-girl’s hair padded along the sidewalk towards the alley she was in. The cat was almost invisible in the moonless night, and only its glowing emerald eyes gave away its existence. Just two steps into the alley, the cat hissed and spun around, before taking off into the night, hairs and tail raised on end. Booze, smoke, drugs, murder. These were all smells a cat in New Jersey learned to grow accustomed to early in life. But the cat had smelled something different here. The alley, and the girl especially, reeked of all these, stronger than any it had ever smelled. But there was another scent, the strongest of them all. As he ran, still without stopping, he tried to remember this smell, he was sure it was familiar. His chest was tight and his throat was closing up, suffocating him, as panic took over. If he was right about this, if that last smell was indeed that which could only be smelled otherwise when taking a sunbath at the base of a tombstone, if he was right, this was the end. And he was sure he was right.
The cat slowed down to a quick walk as he entered an abandoned building that had beams hanging from the ceiling. Rats and cockroaches scurried across the floor, trying to get away from him as he walked through. But he ignored the prey running from his path, and approached a lanky man in his mid-twenties who was dressed in a black turtleneck, blue jeans, and whose dark hair was confined by a grey knit cap.
To no surprise of the man, the cat raised himself onto his hind paws, standing up in the air. The tom-cat began to grow, and his body was warping and changing rapidly. His thick coat of fur started to retract into his skin. He now looked like a half-cat, half-human mutant. The young man watched through his thick-rimmed glasses from his seat on the building’s rubble. The look in his greenish-brown eyes was unsurprised or even bored as he watched the cat’s transformation.
Soon, a man, not a cat, stood in front of him. In many ways he resembled the ghost-girl he’d just seen in the alley. His skin was white as a fresh snowfall, contrasting with his coal-black mop of hair. He wore a black leather jacket, worn out and cracked, even duct taped in some places. Underneath, he had a simple black t-shirt. He also wore tight black denim pants, obviously from the women’s section of a store, that were held up by an equally black leather belt with a large silver buckle in the shape of a bat. On his feet were dark leather boots, just as battered and worn as his jacket, but without the duct tape.
The younger man looked at him anxiously, waiting for news. The way he had run in like that, and the worried look the older man was so obviously trying to hide made him nervous.
“Mikey” the cat-man started gravely. His voice was slightly nasal, not deep. But it was as smooth as the metal buckle on his belt, and it was a beautiful voice that suited him completely. “Mikey.” The man repeated. “She’s back.”
The cat slowed down to a quick walk as he entered an abandoned building that had beams hanging from the ceiling. Rats and cockroaches scurried across the floor, trying to get away from him as he walked through. But he ignored the prey running from his path, and approached a lanky man in his mid-twenties who was dressed in a black turtleneck, blue jeans, and whose dark hair was confined by a grey knit cap.
To no surprise of the man, the cat raised himself onto his hind paws, standing up in the air. The tom-cat began to grow, and his body was warping and changing rapidly. His thick coat of fur started to retract into his skin. He now looked like a half-cat, half-human mutant. The young man watched through his thick-rimmed glasses from his seat on the building’s rubble. The look in his greenish-brown eyes was unsurprised or even bored as he watched the cat’s transformation.
Soon, a man, not a cat, stood in front of him. In many ways he resembled the ghost-girl he’d just seen in the alley. His skin was white as a fresh snowfall, contrasting with his coal-black mop of hair. He wore a black leather jacket, worn out and cracked, even duct taped in some places. Underneath, he had a simple black t-shirt. He also wore tight black denim pants, obviously from the women’s section of a store, that were held up by an equally black leather belt with a large silver buckle in the shape of a bat. On his feet were dark leather boots, just as battered and worn as his jacket, but without the duct tape.
The younger man looked at him anxiously, waiting for news. The way he had run in like that, and the worried look the older man was so obviously trying to hide made him nervous.
“Mikey” the cat-man started gravely. His voice was slightly nasal, not deep. But it was as smooth as the metal buckle on his belt, and it was a beautiful voice that suited him completely. “Mikey.” The man repeated. “She’s back.”