Crunch Time

CW: Physical violence, domestic abuse, animal abuse

It began with a bang. No, not the fireworks, those finished hours ago.

It was the kind of bang that makes you somehow certain that something just exploded out of, not into, existence.

The sound of a crunch that sickens you, a reverb felt through wheel and seat. A meaty thunk that tries to push your insides outside.

“Nick!” your girlfriend cries. Her name is unimportant – she won’t be around for long. “What was that?!”

Always with the shrieking. You grimace. Your head is still hurting from the New Year ’s Eve party. Not because of alcohol. Because of making small talk for hours with her ridiculous family.

“Probably just a rat or something.” To which, she squeals.

“What if it was a pet?” You’re already twisting the key in the ignition again.

“Can we not do this now? We’re nearly home, for god’s sake.” To which, she whimpers. She doesn’t like swearing, even lightly. A fact you learned very early on in the relationship, that you’ve often used to your advantage.

You pull up to the drive. The sound of the gravel makes your girlfriend squirm again. You both wordlessly exit the vehicle. Dawn is about to break. Birds are warming up. She peers at you over the roof of the car, eyes darkly twinkling. She cries so easily.

“I’m going back to check on it,” she says, surprisingly firmly for her. Probably the influence of her egotistical CEO sister, goading her into making some new year’s resolution to do with you, no doubt.

“Suit yourself. Remember to double lock the door.”

She delicately traipses off, probably scared of waking the neighbours, scared of her own shadow.

You open your door, gratefully inhaling the familiar smells. Notes of last week’s curry still lingering in the air, lemony disinfectant, winter berry candles. Things that blissfully aren’t dogs or children or your girlfriend’s mother’s hairspray.

Not long after you collapse into bed, you hear the front door open and close, the click of the chain locking into place. She forgot once, and you made sure she wouldn’t forget again.

She goes to brush her teeth, then gently opens the bedroom door. The rustle of her clothes falling to the carpet, then the slither of her sliding into your bed. You feel the vibrations from her quiet sobbing and figure it was maybe something more than a rat after all.

*

Nine months later

The tang of fantastically freaky fruit punch radiates from your dining room table. Pumpkin lanterns hang globulously from the ceiling. The black candles that bleed red are positioned where they have no chance of bothering the Turkish rug.

You don’t usually celebrate Halloween, but are tiring of being a bachelor and relished the chance of inviting the girls from the office, knowing how few will be able to resist dressing as sexy cats and witches to get a smile out of you. Hopefully more Wednesdays than Morticias. You know what you like and you like what you know.

“Trick or treat!” someone bellows through the letterbox. Ugh, Harry from the mailroom. You had to invite some men so it didn’t just look like you were creating a Haunted Whore House. Fortunately Harry has about 200 lbs on you and half the hair.

You let him in before he wrenches the doorknocker clean off. Harry is in a skeleton costume. Wishful thinking on his part, you suppose.

Ninety minutes later

Your perfectly curated playlist has got the witches twerking, zombies jerking, and the cats purring. You’ve refilled the punch, pleased as punch. The snack pile of nuts (‘no bolts!’ reads the little allergy card you lovingly hand printed beside it) needs replenishing, however. You push your way through the throng, swishing your cape over Sophie’s head on your way. You recognise her as her clown make up isn’t that far from her everyday make up. From the sound of her mock cries of defence followed by titillating tittering, you know she’d be bobbing for your apple the first chance she got.

In the kitchen a sleek, satiny cat awaits. You don’t recall this one coming in. Or who she is. Her face is masked, other than the painted red slash of her mouth. The hair sits under a hood with ears.

“Hello! Come in through the cat flap did you?” you laugh, which is usually the signal for the woman to join in, stumbling a little on the way to the snack cupboard. You remind yourself to pace yourself, before people start mistaking you for the clown.

This one doesn’t join in. This one…hisses? You snap your head out of the snack cupboard. Turns out she was just opening a can.

“Err, do I know you?” you ask. She licks her lips while she thinks of a reply.

Shoes clawfully clicking on the tiles, the mysterious feline sashays over to you. Such beguiling lined green eyes.

“I can tell you,” she whiskers into your ear, “somewhere more private.”

You take a black gloved hand and without a word more, lead her to your bedroom.

Nine minutes later

She has tied you to your bed. With the very leash she denied you clipping to her collar.

You like her style.

“Are you going to tell me who you are yet?” you ask. She replies by putting a ball in your mouth.

“I’ll show you,” she tells you.

You watch as she peels her hood off. Black hair (somewhat disappointingly flecked with grey) is shaken free. The mask is snapped off. This is not someone you recognise from work. This is a stranger who has painted some strange marks on their face. Voodoo hatchings? No. On closer inspection (her milk breath in your nose, green eyes now bloodshot): tyre marks. She straddles you, and your body doesn’t quite know how to respond.

She unzips the top half of her costume. It seems the costume was cunningly structured, given the alarming amount of flesh that bounces out. Not to mention the entrails. She grabs the end of a piece of intestine and just before you close your eyes, bracing for the impact as she swats you with one, you see they have been made from rope.

“Recognise me yet?” she asks.

You shake your head. Her eyes narrow.

“I’m the owner of the cat you killed on New Year’s Day. Your girlfriend – presumably ex-girlfriend now? – told me it was you after she saw the posters I put up.”

You are suddenly all too aware of your compromised position. Your rectum feels like it is trying to swallow you.

“I’m going to release one of your hands now. And then I’m going to hand you your phone. Then you’re going to go to the Nine Lives Cat Rescue Society and you’re going to donate them £1000.”

You groan.

She smiles.

You obey.

“Well done,” she says, after checking your phone. “And now, I’m going to go, and if you ever see me on the street you’re going to act like you don’t know me.”

She turns to leave, and now you see that the tail has been ironed flat.

You gurgle, and rattle the hand that remains chained to your bed.

She turns her head. “Don’t worry. Harry’s going to come up here and set you free just after he’s told every woman here about your torrential bout of diarrhoea that’s rendered you confined to your toilet and that if they don’t go soon they’re bound to catch something. Happy Halloween!”

She flashes her gnashers a final time and closes the door. With a bang.