Unfinished Tales
Author: Polaris Zark

Chapter 2
The Young Cat with Many Names

The young cat has many names. Known by his mother as Last-scent and by his siblings as Questioning-scent, he prefers to go by the name his human uses for him: Milk. Milk jumped from the computer monitor on to Nick’s lap. Nick whined in a sharp low voice. “Ah!” he continued as Milk butted his head into Nick’s solar plexus. Nick pushed him off and continued to waste his life on social networking sites. “Nick, you hurt Milk then!” shouted Nick’s mother as she picked up the limping and mewing pussy-cat, stepping from the room next door.  “Yeah, well the stupid cat hurt me!”

                “Nicholas! Take him to the vet, now!”

                “Why don’t you go? He can’t be that badly hurt!” but Milk had landed with his back leg in the wrong position, surprised by Nick’s outburst.

                The angry seventeen year old boy looked up at his mother. “You’ve got a car! He’s your bloody kitten!” she said.

                Milk didn’t like to be referred to as a kitten, but he had other things on his mind. His leg hurt, and the fact that Nick was neglecting him hurt.

                Nick got up and reached for Milk. Milk got his hopes up high that Nick would take him. He then smelled Nick’s anger sent and was only just realising Nick’s intentioned when the boy drop-kicked him across the room. Milk hit the wall and slid down, in pain. Nick then ran up to Milk and kicked him again and again. Milk yowled and hissed and mewed and whined as all of his bones began to break. He was in sheer pain and was about to give up when Nick’s mother grabbed Nick and threw him to the bed, then ran out the door scooping up Milk.

                In the car, Milk was still in very much pain and couldn’t move. He moaned and moaned. He moaned when they got to the vets and was carried to the waiting room, limp in the mother’s hands.

                How could Nick do that to him? Was that what humans were like? He’d arrived at Nick’s house that morning, and had bonded with the boy. Now he was hurt that Nick had been so nasty to him.

                The vet gave him an anaesthetic and operated on him. He was all bandaged in the morning and his joints ached. Most of all he was hungry. He saw some go-cat beside him and licked up the pellets, eagerly. His wasn’t hurt by Nick’s performance anymore. Instead he felt something else; a burning fire deep inside him. He hated Nick’s guts. He wanted sweet revenge.

                He jumped when he heard a sympathetic mew from the cage next door. It was a big old tom. He was gray with a muscular body and torn ears. He was lying on his side with bandages around his back foot. “What happened to you, young kit?”

                Milk hissed “Kit? I’m six weeks old and a bit!  I’m no kit!” he spat, and then almost squeaked with surprise as he unleashed anger that he had never unleashed before. The old cat seemed surprised as well. “Sorry,” said Milk, “I’m not well,” he squeaked.

                The old cat looked at him as if he’d forgiven him, but no words came out to match that. Instead there came a hiss. “I can see that. Watch your tongue you little mouse. I hate kits like you who think they aren’t kits.”

                What could be a worse insult than mouse?


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