“I noticed it when it came inside, I don’t know how, I don’t know what it is, but I know exactly when it came in.
I was in bed with her, she was already asleep. I was reading when I heard it—the window on the next room over, sliding open. It caught my attention, and I knew exactly what it was. I told myself that I was being silly, that it was just one of the cats. I don’t know if I was being lazy or if I was already afraid by then, but I didn’t get up to check. I don’t know if it would’ve made a difference if I did, but I can’t stop blaming myself for not checking that goddamned window.
The next day, I checked the entire house, and there was nothing out of place—the cats were fine, and even the window was closed. So I forgot about it. At least for a little while, I forgot about the clear and distinct sound of the newly lubricated windows sliding open.
The cats felt its presence before we did. They used to be loving animals, always cuddling up to us. Then they started acting up, looking stressed, on edge. As soon as the sun would set, they’d try to flee the house: they even succeeded a couple of times, giving me the impossible task of finding two black cats, in tall grass, at night.
They started to wander the house at night, scratching doors, meowing, jumping on top of furniture. During the day they would sleep; I believe from exhaustion from being so active at night. And I swear, sometimes I think that the tiny furballs were having nightmares, kicking, hissing, jumping awake. Poor little things, I should’ve known by then, but I rationalized it away as stress from adapting to the new house.
She was affected next. She’d already noticed the cats’ odd behavior, and their escape attempts were stressing her out, but her mood kept getting even worse. She would snap at minor things, like running out of tomato paste, or if the eggs went bad.
Her sleep also became troubled—she would toss, turn, huff, sweat bullets. Every night seemed like torment to her. It got so bad that she would be constantly sore, with stiff muscles, and even bruises.
She was becoming angry, cold, distant, even hateful. We started arguing every day about the smallest things, it seemed she’d get mad just from the sound of my breathing. Arguments became shouting matches.
Weeks later she had dark circles under her eyes, she looked pale, depleted, exhausted. I feel guilty typing this, but I felt relieved when I found her. I couldn’t take watching the love of my life withering away like that.
She was lying in bed, her face frozen in a perfect little smile, cheeks still rosy. She looked so peaceful, happy even; she looked like she finally had some decent sleep. That is, if you ignored the dark brownish-red stains on the white sheets. She had slit her wrists with my shaving razor.