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pretty, shiny furry coat. sebastian fed that little animal like there was no tomorrow. a simple mewl could sweep him off his feet and almost as if he had no control over his own actions, he would hover a small fish shaped treat over the cat’s head. spoiled to death, this cat was. its bowl was never empty, its feet were always wiped, and its fur was always brushed. it would leave traces of stray fur all over the house, most importantly, sebastian’s room was like a home for its sheddings.
long, sharp claws. furniture all over the house were adorned with its claw marks. he had insisted that they never switch out or fix the scruffed furniture, as it “showed that all this cat had to offer was love, and this was its way of showing it.” sebastian can’t count all of the tiny scars and scratches all over his arm from this little feline. anytime anyone would be concerned for his scratched arm, he’d smile, and answer with so much affection that it’s practically dripping off his tone, “my cat’s a beast, i’ll tell you that much.”
pink, flushed nose. even when sebastian was in deep sleep, the cat would nuzzle its nose against him with its own eyes closed. he loved this striking contrast of colour that stood out to the soft white and brown patches littered all over it.
the door opens for what felt like the fiftieth time today, and mrs solace could all but sigh at the sight. of course, no matter how many times you’ll tire yourself out picking bradee up and out of the room, it’d come back and sit in sebastian’s laundry basket without fail. the windows were all shut, the door was locked unless someone opened it for the cat. the classic noise of sucking in teeth she’d make, doesn’t really get it up and about from his basket. “off, c’mon now..”
it’s been so long since anyone has touched any of his belongings here. his bed wasn’t made, his jacket is still slung over on the chair, and his laundry basket is still filled with unwashed clothes. one slow day, his mother thought she had gathered enough courage to bring herself inside his room, but when her hands gripped the handles of the basket, her knees buckled and down she tumbled on the floor.
the last item of clothing he threw into the basket was a holiday sweater that had spilled gravy. he rarely visited home after he moved for college, and in a generous offer from mrs solace, she had told him to simply throw it in the laundry basket and she’d wash it for him later. she never touched the basket, and the gravy sweater still sits in there, untouched and unwashed. she thought of washing it whenever he comes home so he’d have a comfy warm sweater to throw on.
she had left the door slightly agape so bradee could slip out whenever it wanted. the feline was eternally grateful for not getting pried away from the comfort of the laundry basket. in here, it still smells like him. it smells like sebastian, it reeks of cigars, hints of his perfume, masculine and strong. it could lull a simple, sickened cat to a deep sleep. it could bring a sorrowful mother sobbing endless tears over ineludible fate.
each whiff is like an addicting drug, but no matter how much you flood your senses with it, there is always something missing. something incomplete, like an unfinished puzzle with its piece forever gone. a scent so distinct, something that stood out from everything, everyone and in between, that only sebastian possessed. now he seems to be the haunting ghost of this empty room, so out of reach with remnants of him being the only lively thing about him.
there is a small indent of where bradee likes to sleep. sculpted by longing habit, the clothes formed a small nest-like shape for the feline to snore in. it doesn’t understand that sebastian won’t come home. sebastian won’t comb through its fur, won’t whisper high pitched baby talk to it, won’t sleep together in one bed, where he awkwardly bends and goes around where bradee sleeps. it won’t happen again, and bradee doesn’t know that.
it can meow all it wants, scratch at the old wooden door till its hinges give in and break. sebastian isn’t coming home.