Status: It's short.
The Wishing Cat
At night I watch her sleep. It is only then that I can touch her: run my fingers through her hair, over her lips, press the scarab beetle she gave me into her palm in a last, desperate attempt to make her happy.
I can hear the voices of a thousand tortured souls when I use this power, my ancestors clinging to the ankles of Mother Bast in the afterlife. One day I will join them, not wrapped in bandages and gold, not with the heavy smell of spices and incense in the air, but thrown into a muddy hole in the backyard and covered in tulips.
That's fine, as long as she's happy.
She stirs, her voice calling out the weak remnants of a dream, and then she opens her eyes, and I am a cat once more.
I can hear the voices of a thousand tortured souls when I use this power, my ancestors clinging to the ankles of Mother Bast in the afterlife. One day I will join them, not wrapped in bandages and gold, not with the heavy smell of spices and incense in the air, but thrown into a muddy hole in the backyard and covered in tulips.
That's fine, as long as she's happy.
She stirs, her voice calling out the weak remnants of a dream, and then she opens her eyes, and I am a cat once more.