Scratchwood’s been on, and on – but I can’t hear him because and loudly so, I’m scared. It’s not Tolly Maw (which would be reason enough) but Catnip, our beloved and first who is so sweet yet in a moment will with a blaze of white eyes, melt heads. Common enough many would say yet this with all its intricacies saw us by effort reach Bedlam this morning. Once the arms of an Empire housed as a museum had been swept out and for an hour by tick and slow tock we faced the horror of it.
My own and my beloved Catnip is not all she should be. And worse if yet not said, it has been whispered in the silences perhaps and that then is my horror. So early too and early-onset by name this devil that sits in my stomach and whispers what will be. And there is nothing, nothing at all that I can do. All else pales, you are last night’s rain because my own and precious Catnip I fear, and truly so, can only get worse.
She knows it too or at times for she is bright, my star that breathes in air and breathes out light. And she hides in my arms so scared too of herself, and I understand. This is no warm blanket to take you to nowhere. This is a beast, a monster and not one under the bed but in the eyes. And in there and they rage and fight and she reaches out her hand but it’s just the steam of tears, and she’s falling. And inside I’m already dying.
I write as another (first) person, and how telling is that? I am so sorry, but I would swap you all for her and certainly take it on myself. But that's not an option.
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