It was a good place to hide on a night like this. From the stinging curtain of relentless rain, driven by strong winds that were howling through the skeletal remains of the harbor's old factories like a banshee.
It wasn't a night for a cat to be outside. Even though she made it inside, what she was looking for in the light shaft was safety from the monster, the howls of which kept on following her at her heels. She came here as she always would when the outside world would scare her. Whenever she had no time to return home, because the petting hands of strangers had distracted her from the instincts that had tried to warn her of approaching danger.
The forgotten light shaft was her go to place, her safe space, her hideaway. Until today, when the shattering glass gave way under an unseen force, and sent shards scattering like tears across the dusty floor. It startled her. Sudden fright pushed its way into her wide open emerald eyes that reflected the distorted lights of the storm outside. Panic started clawing at her senses, and she bolted.
She is fleeing now. Across the slick, uneven docks, her paws find purchase on the decaying wood. The salty tang of the ocean is overwhelming, a suffocating reminder of the tempest that rages beyond the breakwater.
It is a desperate race against the storm. Against the echo of the shattering glass, and against the loss of safety, an innate fear that she cannot quite name. It is triggered by loud noises, unfamiliar sensations, sudden sounds, sudden light, sudden movement. By erupting chaos.
She claws her way up the embankment, and rips away from the immediate embrace of the sea. The wind is still buffeting her, and the rain still lashing down on her, as she reaches the fringe of the town, where the scent of brine is slowly replaced by a grittier, more familiar smell. It is that of humans. Determinedly she takes refuge in the mouth of a narrow alley. The chasm of shadows that´s wedged between two crumbling buildings swallows her.
Huddled against the wall, she makes it across the alley. She fidgets when the wind blows a pile of clinking and clanking bottles towards her. Behind them, she reaches a boarded-up building with peeling paint and a crooked sign above the door that is barely clinging to the decaying wall.
Her mouth open, she senses a familiar scent. From within the shack the peculiar and mingled aroma of old wood, decay, human sweat, and burnt metal streams onto her tongue. A memory stirs within her. It is safe.
The rain is plastering her obsidian fur, as she sits down on her haunches in front of the building, with a soft, plaintive meow. Her fragile plea is swallowed by the storm and won't ever reach the old artisan inside, whose milky eyes would struggle to see her in the darkness either way. He has been good to her and he is close to where the chaos first erupted and came after her. That's why her innate instinct brought her here. His shaking hands that are usually stained with soot and varnish would never cease to scratch her behind the ears, and make her feel safe. On occasion, he would throw her scraps of fish, and sometimes give her milk. But now…
What is waiting for her here, behind the drumming of the rain and the mournful sigh of the wind, is only silence now. She has no time to wait. The scattered bottles are clinking again and she ducks down, her ears flattened, before she rises and turns away from the door.
She continues her search. Her instincts take her deeper and deeper into the outskirts of town. From time to time, her emerald eyes look up and focus on the skeletal arches of the train bridge, where huddled humans are seeking shelter from the storm. She has always been welcome here, an occasional distraction from desperation, and perhaps a replacement for the acceptance that the homeless men and women out here have never experienced from their kind.
She is never chased out here. She is never threatened. It isn't a safe room, but it is a safe space where she might be protected. That's why she comes here in the raging storm. To people whose faces are etched with hardship and despair, as they are huddling around sputtering fires, and share cheap liquor, sometimes whispered secrets.
Her mouth opens and wind presses thick air with a taste of stale urine, damp clothes, and burnt wood onto her tongue. With the emerald eyes narrowed and focused, she surveys the gathering from a vantage point atop a crumbling brick wall that is overlooking the scene. As she scans the faces below with unsettling intensity like she is searching, perhaps hunting. But for whom?
It is the person whose scent didn't quite make it onto her tongue that she is looking for. In vain. He isn't there. With a flick of her tail, she abandons its post and disappears back into the storm, now towards the heart of town.
The cobbled streets of the wealthy district are a stark contrast to the squalor of the outskirts. Here, the houses are standing tall and proud, and their windows are glowing with warm, inviting light. But here as well she has been chased before away from flourishing gardens and inviting sandboxes before. She has been followed by a bit too eager children, and shooed by their a bit too protective parents. It isn´t the safest place she can think of to find shelter from the storm, but right amidst it, is her home.
The air smells of freshly baked bread and expensive perfumes. Behind manicured lawns and wrought-iron gates lies a world of privilege, comfort and carefully concealed secrets that she knows well. She moves through the streets with confidence, and pads silently along the rain-slicked cobblestones until it reaches a house, the facade of which bathes in the soft glow of spotlights. Too bright for her taste, but despite it, she presses through the discreet cat flap in the back door and slips inside.
Behind it, a spacious hallway. The air is warm and dry against her fur. From the nearby dining room, the murmur of familiar voices and the clatter of cutlery reaches her perked up ears. A mother, a father, and two young children are seated around a large mahogany table, and the warm glow of an artificial chandelier gives a warm glow to their faces. They are in the middle of their evening meal.
With a forced smile, the mother notices her.
"Oh, Midnight is back," she says, and turns to the children. "See? There was no need to worry, I knew she was fine. And she is only a cat, not even from a prestigious breeder. We would have gotten another one for you, this time from a certified place if she had not returned home."
Then she turns to the father, a tall, slender man with sharp features and an almost unnervingly calm demeanor, who still had his coat on, he had just arrived home.
"Oh, before I forget, Benedict, darling, did you remember to bring the tools? The sink needs fixing. Today. Not that I expect you to do it, we both know that you are useless at repairs, but nevermind. If you brought them, I will do it."
"They're in the car," he nods curtly. "I'll get them later."
Silence falls over the table. Oblivious to the undercurrent of tension that is hanging in the air, the children concentrate on their dinner. Midnight's eyes wander between their dinner and food in her bowl, which sits in front of her in the corner of the hallway. She bends forwards to smell it, then licks the sauce off it, and sits back again, fixing her emerald eyes on the father. He pokes around in his food, then puts the fork down next to his plate, and sighs when his wife looks at him derogatorily.
"Darling, I told you I prefer it… rawer. This is cooked."
With a flicker of annoyance on her face, she shrugs.
"Well, Richard, and I told you I don´t care, and that you can cook it yourself if you have special requests." The shaking of her head elevates her above him.
"Amongst all the bad choices you are making every day, your strange food choices throw me off the most, even after 14 years of marriage. You're a surgeon, for God's sake! Don't you see enough raw flesh all day? You disgust me."
He doesn't answer: In 14 years he has learned that she has the power in their marriage, so he only smirks, a chillingly unsettling expression that didn't quite reach her eyes. Then he rises from the table, the plate in his hand, and walks towards the hallway, where Midnight is sitting by her bowl, as if she has been waiting for him.
"Ah, there you are," he acknowledges her in a soft voice.
As he reaches down and strokes her, she gives a loud and contented purr. With a casual flick of his wrist, he scrapes the remaining meat from his plate to land it in her bowl. Only hesitantly Midnight starts to devour it, and her emerald eyes gleam in the dim light of the hallway.
This meat is overcooked, indeed.