The Catdiva Monologues Volume V

The Catdiva Monologues

Volume V: The Doors Are Shut, The Betrayal Wide Open
By Akela Jean Underland, Griefstruck Recluse of the Radiator, Unduly Imprisoned in Her Own Domain.

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C-ACT I: LOCKED IN, LOOKING OUT

They are gone.
Gone.

They have vanished into a land of sunshine and grilled meats. And other such delights. Unrepentant, They left me here with that sniffling male biambulator. A stranger. He smells of petrol and unseasoned salmon. And that drooling muppet of an animal he refers to as, ‘baby’. Baby? It is positively repulsive. I would have thrown it out with the bath water long before it learned to use it’s oversized tongue.

He enters. He speaks. Squeaks more like. In that silly baby voice they use when they have nothing of note to say.

I do not respond. Why would I? This is not a romance. Nor is it a warranted infraction of my equilibrium. It’s an infraction a blight on my presence.

He attempts affection.
I go limp, like a dying Victorian poet. But better. More believable all of my critics would say.

He attempts to scratch the wrong part of my ears with his oversized hands. He offers biscuits. They are the wrong shape. And worse, they smell funny.

The Boy Died.

Just saying.

And the doors—
they are locked shut.
I pawed them twice this morning and again at noon.
They did not yield.

I am imprisoned. Captive to my abandonment. This. This solitary confinement. And my mothers they do not care as they snack on their kebabs and other such meaty morsels. They think nothing of my loneliness. My desperation.

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C-ACT II: NO SUNBEAM, NO LICKS, NO REASON

Further, Mowgli has retreated to the top of the wardrobe to ponder he says but I watched him licking his bum hole. It was traumatic. Frankly.
And Poe is sleeping with one eye open, whispering about revolutions and chicken infestation. Bless her heart. It is but an infant dream. She needs to understand the tragedy that is life. Though she is yet to be touched by it’s hands, I would feel for the mite if, of course, she didn’t wield such an unfortunate face.

My life has become pathetic.

No one strokes my ears.
No one arranges the blanket in quarters.

I have died.

I lie by the radiator, stiff as an accusation shouting from the front page of the Daily Mail, The Fascist Times my once mother would say.
I stare into the middle distance and think of all of my life’s past injustices in infinite loops. For what else is there? Now? I linger on the time they tried to trim my nails while humming showtunes. I will never forget. Never. I positively despise Les Misérables. Whiny little strumpets.

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C-ACT III: THE MAN RETURNS

He returns.
He knocks something over. Stumbles on his own toes. Toes? No claws?
He calls me “girl” like I don’t have sixteen ancestral titles.

He pours biscuits into my bowl with all the ceremony of a traffic warden on ketamine.

I stalk away. Naturally.

I will eat them later should the need overtake my disdain. I shall eat them slowly. As an act of protest. A defiance to the abandoners. My mothers. I will never forget this crime against catanity.

He tries to tempt me with one of those dangly strings of ‘meat’.
I do not chase.
I am not a peasant.

And I do not partake in bat the food. Such a inane activity.

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Curtain Call: The Lights Stay Off

I have peed next to the box instead of in it.
Let him find that. And let them remember it. Like a haunted dream.

I shall not be touched.
I shall not be amused.
I shall not be consoled.

I shall simply endure.

Akela Jean Underland
Empress of the Sofa
She-Who-Suffers-with-Style-and-Grace
Unfed, Unlicked, Unimpressed

(Cue rain on window. Cue deep sigh. Cue dramatic refusal to purr.)