He is petty, short-tempered, and cruel. He watches the mice linger at the threshold of the mouse hole, watch them poke our their heads tentatively, and they squeak, and they say to their companions hiding deeper in the walls, the coast is clear. He watches them lazily from his cat bed, three sizes too big, half-unseeing, half-asleep, because they are not worth the effort. He rolls on his back and mewls petulantly, wishing for more attention from his busy, busy master, and when the squeaking distracts her much too much from both her work and him he reaches out his claw and
twenty fifty thirty heads roll onto the floor, faces rigid and shocked for they have learnt what humans were perhaps not meant to learn, what it is like to be caught as a traitor with one's head disconnected from their bodies.
The familiar is always pleased with his work and is more so when he sees his master is pleased, too. He is lazy and cruel and messy and does not bother to clean his claws whenever he crawls onto her lap, demanding attention.
He thinks he is, at least. He thinks, because almost everyone is gone. There are no children who sit at their desks anymore, clamoring for idleness and ignorant of instruction, there is no older sibling leaning against a creaking desk, his lamp less than an arm's length away. There are not parents with eyes looking elsewhere and hands like fists, and there is no teacher, no friends, no enemies, and there is no one, because, he thinks, he has almost gotten rid of them all.
But there are still people, and he is not safe yet.
He is petty, short-tempered, and cruel. He watches the mice linger at the threshold of the mouse hole, watch them poke our their heads tentatively, and they squeak, and they say to their companions hiding deeper in the walls, the coast is clear. He watches them lazily from his cat bed, three sizes too big, half-unseeing, half-asleep, because they are not worth the effort. He rolls on his back and mewls petulantly, wishing for more attention from his busy, busy master, and when the squeaking distracts her much too much from both her work and him he reaches out his claw and
twenty fifty thirty heads roll onto the floor, faces rigid and shocked for they have learnt what humans were perhaps not meant to learn, what it is like to be caught as a traitor with one's head disconnected from their bodies.
The familiar is always pleased with his work and is more so when he sees his master is pleased, too. He is lazy and cruel and messy and does not bother to clean his claws whenever he crawls onto her lap, demanding attention.
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He thinks he is, at least. He thinks, because almost everyone is gone. There are no children who sit at their desks anymore, clamoring for idleness and ignorant of instruction, there is no older sibling leaning against a creaking desk, his lamp less than an arm's length away. There are not parents with eyes looking elsewhere and hands like fists, and there is no teacher, no friends, no enemies, and there is no one, because, he thinks, he has almost gotten rid of them all.
But there are still people, and he is not safe yet.
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