Chapter Text
K by Cigarettes After Sex was not a song to listen alone. The sultry air of the music, the sweet and challenging tone the singer used to address his beloved –the kind of tone you would use after a candlelight dinner with your wife, highlighting what remains of romanticism in the room after putting away the used cutlery. The two lovers would sit side by side on their shared couch, holding hands and passionately look in the eye while they absentmindedly listen to this music -and at the price of having a smooth melody, K was a song which whispered its words, as if it respected the intimacy needed by its listeners at the time it was played.
And if you didn't have a lover with whom you could listen to this honey-like composition, it may happen that it could create one for you, otherwise you wouldn't be able to have the pleasure of feeling that delight.
His front door was just a plain, ordinary metal door, like all the others in the neighborhood. The kind that you close gently with your heel after returning from work; a newspaper tucked under your arm and a hot coffee in your hand –and Mister Cat did this. He lifted his leg, closed the door with his foot, leaving a dusty shoe print on it, and went inside without taking his shoes off. He yawned, revealing two rows of properly aligned, white teeth, and his little nose curled. He expertly flung his coat across the room, and it landed on the coat hanger. He paused a few seconds in the middle of his living room, as if to make sure of something, then shrugged. His brothers were apparently still not home yet. That meant he could tarry around a little longer with his shoes and clothes.
Nicholas had always been overly fussy. Mister Cat had read somewhere that it was an obsessive compulsive disorder where the person could not tolerate dirt and was compelled to clean up all the time, for no particular reason –but he wasn't the type to let things pass without an explanation, especially when they concerned someone with whom he shared his tiny apartment. He sort of knew that this disorder was due to him finding something to fill the hole left by their parents when they disappeared, and he definitely knew, that Nicholas couldn't bear the responsibilities that were passed on to him after the disappearance of their parents forever. He was pushed into the adult working world despite barely grazing the horizon of adulthood, sacrificing himself in place of his two younger brothers. But Nicholas did not mind, because all three of them knew that he was letting them enjoy the last few months of youth (i.e. freedom) they had left before being pushed into this unstable boat that had pushed him to anorexia. This week, Nicholas' boss –actually, bosses, because life was a bitch which needs lots of money– had given him a few days off. Christmas was fast approaching, and even the toughest of bosses understood that every employee –no, every human– needed to spend these meager moments of happiness with their family, before the rat race caught up to them again.
Thus Nicholas decided, this year, to enjoy the festivities away from home, and Mister Cat had not asked him for any justification. His brother certainly wanted to experience the pleasure of leaving this city whose streets he'd run through many times, see some old friends from college in Strasbourg, and, most of all, arrange parties with enough alcohol to help him forget their harsh reality. But he didn't need to explain all these reasons, and Mister Cat did not need to hear them either. And so he left, leaving behind a half-empty closet, a refrigerator filled with leftovers, and a living room that smelled like alcohol.
Mr. Cat rarely entered their home. He spent his weekends slumped in a chair in the bookstore where his second brother, Samuel, worked. If the chair had a mouth, it would have testified to the customary weight of his derriere. He debated with the first visitor about politics and economics, with the fervor of an old man –and this comparison was pretty good in his case, as he was a teenager who had matured too fast.
Despite living together under the same roof, the three brothers seldom exchanged words. When they did, it was to yell orders at each other –"Buy some more beer!", "Fix the faucet!" or "Take out the trash, it's been stinking for three days!". They only found themselves on the same sofa during a football match –but their TV was one of those old models designed for children that turn off automatically after 9:00 pm; so it was unusual for them to watch together. Communication was unfortunately dead in this house. It slowly disappeared after their parents did. Then, of course, after a few years, conflicts began. Several times, they nearly committed fratricide, with the victim usually being Mr. Cat or Samuel.
You could say that these two were like the sun and the moon. They weren't supposed to be in the same place. They never got along. A little glance, a misplaced word, a step too far, and there would be a fight so bad only predators knew the secrets of how it was done. You wouldn't have guessed that they were blood brothers if it wasn't for the similarity of their DNA. Notwithstanding the irony: Nicholas was adopted. If there was even a shred of logic in this family –even if it was in terms of violence–, he would have been the victim of the true brothers, Samuel and Mr. Cat (like in Cinderella) –and not the most mature and respected of the three. But that didn't stop him from occasionally joining Samuel, the brother he felt closer to, in beating up Mr. Cat, who found himself outnumbered.
And little by little, Nicholas started to join in more often, abandoning his role as the rescuer. It could be supposed that these fights which he so enthusiastically participated in helped him get rid of the stress of working all day. Samuel didn't really have a reason. He claimed that it was a punishment for Mr. Cat being the only unemployed little bastard who didn't help to feed the household and pay the bills and taxes, but he really only did it for fun. And the equation re-balanced itself in an unfair manner. It was no longer Mr. Cat against Samuel, with Nicholas coming to the rescue. It was now Mr. Cat against Samuel and Nicholas, and the police (called by the neighbors) who intervened and punished them even more.
Mr. Cat had never felt any affection for his older brothers, but he did hold them to some regard since they helped him live. And slowly, his respect for them vanished, along with his desire to live with these two bullies. But he supposed that he didn't have any other choice. He couldn't sleep outside with all those homeless squirrels who stole people's clothes. So he tried, in the last hope of finding rationality in this family, to consider that it was a give-and-take relationship : they covered his living expenses, and he was their punching bag. Anyway, the world outside was even more harsh and cruel than life in the apartment. Mr. Cat knew that once he stepped out that door, he could be knocked out cold with a beer bottle by homeless squirrels wanting to rob him, or kidnapped by organ traffickers, or at the very least, embark on a cold, misanthropic journey from which he was separated by only one step.
Tonight, it was December 24th. Christmas Eve, the day where families gather around a table decorated with a spotlessly white tablecloth, with various chandeliers illuminating the scene and uncountable dishes. Mr. Cat looked at the wall clock. It was eight o'clock. The image of a traditional family assembled around a huge buffet to share laughter and stereotypical stories formed in his mind. He sighed. Usually, he would have said that Christmas was not ''a'' celebration for families, but ''the'' celebration for the wallets of the managers of commercial companies. But he could not hide his frustration today. For sure, it would have been less if he had been blessed with a family that was "complete", but this was unfortunately not the case –and something as beautiful and magical as Christmas only could be sullied by the words of a guy who secretly envied others.
The sound of the doorbell rang through the apartment, prompting him to turn around as he raised an eyebrow. It couldn't be either of his brothers because they were spending Christmas elsewhere, nor the mailman, because he had no damn packages to receive from anyone. It couldn't be his neighbors, because they were unaware of his existence –and It definitely couldn't be Santa, because he had been anything but good this year –though the prospect of finding a fat bearded man dressed in red at the door seemed ten times more credible than that of finding someone wanting to wish him a merry Christmas. The request to enter was reiterated by the mysterious visitor, and Mr. Cat gently moved towards the door. He sat up suddenly when his hand touched the lock, wondering for a split second if it was a thief who had discreetly followed him home. At this thought, he clenched his fist and began menacingly, then lowered down the handle, unlocking the door. Then he gently pushed forward, causing a squeaking sound that faded after a few seconds. He slowly raised his eyes to the newcomer.
And here, ladies and gentlemen, the disadvantages of not having a peephole on the -
Oh.
– Hello there, sir, Merry Christmas! Is this apartment number five? I'm here with the pizza ! announced a cheerful voice.
He stopped moving and looked at the the face in front of him. Not caring about the species of the animal that owned this gentle lisp, he began to contemplate her face: a large head with round cheeks, and slightly shimmering greenish skin that extended to the mouth, giving way to a milky white –a frog. But the gentle contrast between these different shades, by no means equaled the intensity of what was right in front of him : two eyeballs more red than a Christmas garland. There were other important details which he noticed a few milliseconds later, like the fact that this charming pizza delivery girl was dressed as Mother Christmas –she wore a thick red dress with woolen ends, which covered just part of her thighs and forearms, molding her modest chest. The outfit was finalized by a red hat with a pompom on top of her head, and a pair of white leggings on her slender legs.
The cat leaned against the door, eyeing again this divine entertainment that had him be offered on a silver platter – who said that God did not exist?
And he answered, nonchalantly :
– I don't like pizza.