And the Teapot-Cat Wept

by Deidre J Owen

     He felt the breath gurgle in his throat as his lungs slowly deflated for what he knew to be the final time. Unable to blink any longer, he could only stare blankly up at the nicotine-tainted ceiling tiles. The air began to burn his eyes, and the crisp edges of an ugly water stain overhead started to blur. It looked a bit like a misshapen teapot.

     A strange hand slipped deep into his pants pockets—first one pocket, and then the other—brushing aside the flaccid member beneath in search of any trinkets that may have slipped down into the seams. Two hands then cupped his thigh and roughly patted each leg all the way to the ankle, jiggling his entire body and causing his head to wobble slightly against the cold, bare floor. His naked heel cracked painfully against the concrete when his shoe was unceremoniously yanked off his foot, knocked around, and discarded. The other shoe, yanked; the other heel, cracked. The hair at the back of his head bent and crinkled uncomfortably against his collar with all the jostling. He was due for a haircut.

     The coolness of the concrete had seeped through his suit coat and was beginning to chill him through the shoulders. He was keenly aware, however, of the warmth slowly spreading across his middle and tickling his sides as thick rivulets began to worm their way around to the small of his back. The teapot looked more like a cat now. 

     A stillness settled into his core when his heart beat its last. He felt it, that final beat, along with the heavy void that followed, that crushing emptiness of unmet expectation when what had been something was followed by nothing. What had been pounding with dread had fallen silent with doom.

     The teapot-cat was suddenly eclipsed by a fat, sour face twisted with concentration. He felt his body jiggle again, the assailant diving into the interior coat pockets and withdrawing a wad of papers. From the corner of his eye, he watched, helplessly inert, as the papers were examined one by one with soiled, sticky fingers. A violated receipt fluttered past his face, briefly tickling his eyelashes and eliciting a nearly imperceptible spasm of the eyelid.

     The sour face puckered into a hideous smirk while beady eyes traced the details of . . . what? What is that? He could no longer roll his eyes to see, but he knew. His exanimate arms lay limp and useless, flung hastily out of the way. They rejected his desperate commands to move, to twitch, to feel. They were gone.

     His arms were gone. His legs were gone. The excruciating pain in his stomach turned to ice. His mouth, agape, was filled with stagnating air, saliva pooling at the back. He wanted to gag. The broad expanse of ceiling above him had shrunk to an out-of-focus window through which the teapot-cat observed the grim scene in solemn silence, weeping the tears the dead could not.

    Without warning, the sour face filled that shrinking, clouded window and leered down at him over its chins. A gravelly voice, distant and distorted, warbled out of the gathering gloom.

     "Nice doin' business with ya, mister."

Deidre J Owen is a versatile writer who takes delight in exploring many different genres, including speculative fiction, weird fiction, children's fiction, humor, horror, and sci-fi. She has published several children's books as well as a number of short stories through Mannison Press, and flash pieces on her website at www.deidrejowen.com. Founder and designer at Mannison Press, Deidre is currently loving life in Florida with her family as a writer, publisher, and work-from-home parent.