Y - Returns of the cat woman

She feeds opportunists in the neighbourhood. If she knows, she
doesn't care. She's doing good. She took a fall herself a few years
ago. Its hard to understand when yes means no. She puts it in a box,
and carries it around. She's a dirty little fox and she makes me proud.
She's doing good, she's doing all right, maybe not tonight, but most of
her life.

'You've got to learn to love what you're doing, love who your
screwing', but maybe she heard that in a song. 'They lied about the
sixties, they were never that pretty, and now I'm going to change the
tune.' She gets down from the breakfast table, unbolts the stable and
exits the same way she crawled in.

Refuse workers spot her naked top asleep, in black plastic sheets,
snuggled in a fur coat throw-out. 'Don't shout,' they tell her, 'don't
wake the sleeping babies, don't dilly-dally and you will be queen.' A
woman from the hospital arrives, with bodyguards, Mean and Hairy. Try
to talk her up but their tough luck; she's a goner, out the back and
round the block. Hairy clutches chest and curses, words unbecoming
nurses. Mean gives chases up a fire escape, pulls her down from the
highest rung. Hairy coughs up a lung.

Form filler from the SS asks for her number. It was hennaed on her arm,
but the tan has faded. Form filler stamps it back double hard.
Bar-coded, tagged and traded, a commodity of the national health,
patient for sale to the highest bidder. How much for this poor
specimen, twisted all over and never a grin? Hairy tips a wink and the
hammer falls. Ties her up, ties her down, leads her back to the
wards.
'This isn't the way.'
'It's my way, tonight. So, be quiet or I'll hurt, and we don't want a
fight.'

On blank canvasses of days, she paints flightless birds and spotted
kangaroos. If she's good, she's been promised a trip to the zoo. A life
behind bars, it doesn't appeal, she wants the open road in front of the
wheel. A car parking lottery, more litter than literary. Fortune
favours nobody, not even statistically.
There is talk in the laundry. They all want to be free. 'In your head,'
whispers the exiled president of France, 'out your mind and in your
head. They can't beat that, no chemical attack will permeate the
membrane.' But that man squats over drains. He sleeps in chains. He
doesn't take the medication, and they seeing no improvement.
She swallows. Each pep pill and sweet talk, she gulps down with water.
'Getting better, growing stronger,' she writes on the mirror. She
crosses the days and counts the finger sweeping around the minute hand.
A light bulb idea is becoming a plan.
She feigns headaches and blackouts worse than the bends. She hoards the
candy they slip her, and steals from the friends that she makes in the
dayroom. 'Soon,' the doctor explains, 'you'll feel better, bright as
the rain.' But they mumble behind her right ear, fear the drugs are not
helping, double her dose. She hides the pills in her box, underneath Mr
Tipsy's collar, seals the lid with sellotape, and pushes under the
bed.

Eyes open all night, watching the door for Hairy hands creep crawling
on a call. She's earned his trust, acting broken and infatuated. Told
him, 'you saved this waif', empowered him and made him feel safe, ready
for tonight.

'Evening, pet.' He sleets on her cheek, cold breath, peppered with
mint. 'I got you whiskey. I'm frisky in my head tonight.

A touching effort, when there is no need. He's brought whiskey to
lubricate his actions. She swigs and chokes, to cause distraction.
While he fetches a cloth, she pops sedatives into the bottle. She's
learnt the names of the medication, what to take for each destination.
Start with a sedative.
She makes him strip, swig from the neck.

'Hey, this is strong. I can't feel my feet. Or my hands, or my lips.
What you done, crazy bitch?'
Words slurred, balance removed, gravity collapses his body to a pool.
On the floor, down but not out. She hops out of bed, pokes at the
twisted grin on his head.
'Don't speak my love. You're in hand now. Time for a dose of the same.'
She kicks at his privates. Shame only his eyes can register the pain.
She deals a clock face round his mouth, laxatives, barbiturates and
hormones, something for the pain, something for the weekend, something
borrowed, and something for the blue.
'Now my love, you're going to feel some discomfort.'
I tell my cats things, pretty little puss. They like a bit of fuss. But
little kitty can be jealous. When they wear the wrong paws, all spit
and claws. Little kitty's going to like you lover. Roll you over, pull
the other. Lick you, like a tiny baby suckles, chew your fingers to the
knuckles. When he's down to bone and sinew, he'll lap up all the marrow
in you.

--This is work in progress. If you would like me to finish it, please
email or vote. Thank you --