Post Hoc
A Ducking Interlude
Cathy hates mail. Cathy hates it lying in the sullen white papery lump when she gets home. She knows its all bad news, all bills and doctor’s appointments so she lines the cat litter tray with them. In her head, the lack of evidence will free her. Ignorance is bliss, shall they say?
They cut the cable off first, then the gas. Cathy doesn’t mind the cold, doesn’t mind it much. Except today she wants a shower to drain away the smell of that nasty man she spoke to so she’s running a cold bath.
The bath nips at her feet, scouring at her pale wisps of breath that hang in the air. She breathes in starts because she fears what would happen to submerge fully into the bath. She tried it before the gas ran out. Pulled her under and tried to drown herself.
I’d help her but I can’t.
She’s such a silly dear, getting all fussed about life and death. If only she were to squidge a mile in my shoes – if you can image them – I think Cathy might feel a little better. She might actually take her medicine and pay her bills. But she’s an awfully silly girl, you know.
I always try to tell her advice. I always try to say to her “Catherine, straighten up and fly right” but Cathy doesn’t pay attention to little old me.
She used to be better than this. If not cheerful but she was still human, still alive. She ran bubble baths and how I remember them! It makes an old person feel very happy. She used to have all these scented bubble baths in a range of flowers and fruits and soak with me alongside her, nuzzling gently against her skin, feeling her warm pulse against my cold flesh. She’d walk around naked all of Sunday, spending hours in the bath, reading a book and I her eternal companion.
But she’s more plastic than me and I’m a rubber duck.
And although I’m hollow inside, I can’t help but feel for the girl. Big empty house and a big empty heart. I’ve seen them, I’ve seen them all. The males she tries to entice and the failures that preoccupy her. They’re always the wrong type.
Take Theodore, for example. I watched him in here, in my house, my goddamn place with his strange, accented hands in strange places. I saw him running his coarse mitts over his bollocks. If I had a squeaker or something, for a voice or some form of communicating with her of my own volition, I would have told her what a wank the guy was. And he had a tattoo of some flag on his tail end – some foreign country, I don’t know. America or Israel or something, I have no interest in human geographical politics – who wants to bed some patriotic wank?
If someone is that desperate for the human touch then she must be very lonely. I mean, Cathy’s alone – aside from me and Allie the cat, naturally. Cathy doesn’t mind being alone, I don’t think. Cathy likes it. Why would she spend her Sundays like that? Why have long baths and read books and squeeze the delicate trails of whatever the hell that white shite is that she squeezes out of the pores in her pretty little face if she didn’t like being alone?
Then again, too much of a good thing, I guess.
I still feel sorry for her. Maybe when she gets tired of humans, she’ll look my way. Not as a husband or as a lover but just something to touch. Who needs a human anyway? I’ll give her satisfaction and Allie can give her cuddles and stink the place out when she lets one drop.
But not like this. She’s getting out of the bath and she’s blue. Blue and stimulated in the right places. But it’s a harsh comfort. Even rubber ducks have standards and the poor lassie needs more cuddles than cunnilingus at the moment.
It could be possible for the latter for me but the lack of limbs make the former somewhat more difficult.
Poor lassie.
They cut the cable off first, then the gas. Cathy doesn’t mind the cold, doesn’t mind it much. Except today she wants a shower to drain away the smell of that nasty man she spoke to so she’s running a cold bath.
The bath nips at her feet, scouring at her pale wisps of breath that hang in the air. She breathes in starts because she fears what would happen to submerge fully into the bath. She tried it before the gas ran out. Pulled her under and tried to drown herself.
I’d help her but I can’t.
She’s such a silly dear, getting all fussed about life and death. If only she were to squidge a mile in my shoes – if you can image them – I think Cathy might feel a little better. She might actually take her medicine and pay her bills. But she’s an awfully silly girl, you know.
I always try to tell her advice. I always try to say to her “Catherine, straighten up and fly right” but Cathy doesn’t pay attention to little old me.
She used to be better than this. If not cheerful but she was still human, still alive. She ran bubble baths and how I remember them! It makes an old person feel very happy. She used to have all these scented bubble baths in a range of flowers and fruits and soak with me alongside her, nuzzling gently against her skin, feeling her warm pulse against my cold flesh. She’d walk around naked all of Sunday, spending hours in the bath, reading a book and I her eternal companion.
But she’s more plastic than me and I’m a rubber duck.
And although I’m hollow inside, I can’t help but feel for the girl. Big empty house and a big empty heart. I’ve seen them, I’ve seen them all. The males she tries to entice and the failures that preoccupy her. They’re always the wrong type.
Take Theodore, for example. I watched him in here, in my house, my goddamn place with his strange, accented hands in strange places. I saw him running his coarse mitts over his bollocks. If I had a squeaker or something, for a voice or some form of communicating with her of my own volition, I would have told her what a wank the guy was. And he had a tattoo of some flag on his tail end – some foreign country, I don’t know. America or Israel or something, I have no interest in human geographical politics – who wants to bed some patriotic wank?
If someone is that desperate for the human touch then she must be very lonely. I mean, Cathy’s alone – aside from me and Allie the cat, naturally. Cathy doesn’t mind being alone, I don’t think. Cathy likes it. Why would she spend her Sundays like that? Why have long baths and read books and squeeze the delicate trails of whatever the hell that white shite is that she squeezes out of the pores in her pretty little face if she didn’t like being alone?
Then again, too much of a good thing, I guess.
I still feel sorry for her. Maybe when she gets tired of humans, she’ll look my way. Not as a husband or as a lover but just something to touch. Who needs a human anyway? I’ll give her satisfaction and Allie can give her cuddles and stink the place out when she lets one drop.
But not like this. She’s getting out of the bath and she’s blue. Blue and stimulated in the right places. But it’s a harsh comfort. Even rubber ducks have standards and the poor lassie needs more cuddles than cunnilingus at the moment.
It could be possible for the latter for me but the lack of limbs make the former somewhat more difficult.
Poor lassie.