Damn Cats

by Sunshine-Smiles

Rating: teen
Tags: Slice of Life, Dark, Random
Length: 1312

How does one deal with a world in which cats run rampant? Rarity has an existential crisis

How does one deal with a world in which cats run rampant? Rarity has an existential crisis

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2012-12-07 09:48:33 UTC

Minor Heaven

“In the middle of winter I at last discovered that there was in me an invincible summer.” - Albert Camus

Rarity peeked out the window for the third time in five minutes. Cats, still. The cats were still running rampant. If anything, they were rampantly rampant, not a space free of their influence. Bile rising in her throat, her heart sank and she morosely turned away, taking a seat on the couch. She put her head in her hooves.

How was she going to deal with this? Would it ever end? Ever since the cats had multiplied and overrun everything five days ago, unless she just hadn’t noticed them before, she’d been unable to leave her house. Every time Rarity tried to set foot outside, they’d line up and awkwardly stare, an unspoken threat, until she shut the door. Fluttershy was already dead.

Would Equestria ever return to whatever semblance of peace it used to have? Who would pick their world up off the ground?

The simple things. Best to return to them, they might take her mind off the ache in her belly, that throbbing blemish of betrayal. It’d almost feel better to cut the damn thing out at this point. No, she shook her head, still pretending there was an alternative to self-destruction. Trodding unsteadily, Rarity went to the bathroom.

Not to use it of course, there was nothing left in her wretched bowels to empty. Rather, Rarity sought comfort in the painting of a sailboat on that wall. It was so pure, so content. On the whole, the unicorn rejected innocence as a concept, it seemed a trifling and fruitless idea to her, but there was still something to be said for the ease of a watercolor sailboat. If sails had faces, she often imagined this one would be smiling at her and that just warmed her insides. And her thighs.

Wait . . . she looked down. That warmth spreading through her wasn’t good feelings at all, she had soiled herself. Well. Well, she was wrong about having nothing left inside, Rarity reflected, as she watched the golden stream trail down her legs. Might as well sit in it, that seemed the natural course.

Settling down, she shuddered as the puddle made uncomfortable contact with her skin, soaking her thinning fur. Cold tile caressed her cheek, marginally better. She lay there for hours, ruminating and decaying, they went hoof in hoof.

Where to go from here? Could she go from here?

Perhaps not. Perhaps she’d finally run out, exhausted all her momentum. The last of the wick burned out, nothing left but to await oblivion. She’d lie there then, motionless and pristine like an oblivious stone. More a pebble really in the grand scheme, always something bigger. Bigger but not more significant, and if there was something that finally trumped all the rest of creation and by doing so, proved its mettle and gained importance, well then, she’d yet to learn of it. Perhaps it wasn’t meant to be understood by a mundane pony anyway. In which case, what did it matter if she stopped? If she did just release her hold on will, let it all slip away, what difference would it make for one no different than a worm?

That brought the ghost of a smile to her lips, and Rarity rolled over, allowing her other side a good soak. Perhaps then, the cats were not such a troubling ordeal either, if they had the time of their existence to trifle with a worm. They’d breached the standard of the gods, if there existed any, the hallmark of true divinity. By the very act of acknowledging her, the cats had lowered themselves to her status, revealed they had nothing greater to occupy themselves than her.

But then, what did this matter to her? She’d already resigned herself. The sky could fall and she wouldn’t care. The mare sighed, staring up at the ceiling. Removing activity was a good start, now if only she could abolish loathsome thought as well. Then she’d have accomplished the dream, finally rid of the the filth, and not a concern to be heard of.

But damn it, she was still doing it. Still thinking of the cats.

Here she was relaxing in her piss, and still the unicorn couldn’t help but dwell on the cats. At ease in the grime, pristine fur stained a delightful yellow, yet her mind insisted on treachery. And she couldn’t stop it, only able to clean up after the deed had been done. Her thoughts weren’t hers then, but she was merely the overseer, watching as it toiled and doing her best to steer production. Then, what was the source, the generator of logos? Was it the cats?

No, she scowled. The cats were nothing but a burden, more than others, and she wasn’t going to attribute anything good to them, regardless of the facts. Damn, cats. No more awful cats. They could have their slice of hell for all she cared.

Something else. The sailboat again? Yes, that was why she’d first come here. There it rested on the wall. It was a nice boat, a comforting soft yellow hull with a red stripe down the side. Pleasantly simple. The sort one might find at the dentist’s office, intended to ease nerves. A commendable endeavor. Come to think, an unfortunate accident, that was how she’d gotten the idea to obtain one herself. She’d seen a quite similar painting in the waiting room of her dentist and she’d thought at the time, Hmm yes, that might be the sort of thing I’d want in the bathroom to ease the strain on my bowels. And it’d done its job well, well enough, at least until the—

Fucking cats. Rarity rolled over again, huffing in agitation. She’d had a nice little mental streak going too, before it’d inevitably returned to the filthy beasts.

But was it inevitable, did she believe in that? No, she wouldn’t go that far. She’d already discounted divinity, especially theirs. She prefered an empty solitude of secularity anyway, to the alcoholic buzz of piety. That was why she’d chosen the floor, Rarity reminded herself. The piss was still warm.

Yet, thought refused to cease. Even with nothing else to impinge her, the world wouldn’t leave her. It had infiltrated her psyche, pervaded her to the core. A damned daughter of gaia. Then she really was the worm, mind no sacred temple, but rather defined by its condition. Worm before individual, circumstance preceding cognition. Doomed even before the cats.

And there she went again! And now she was laying on her foreleg wrong and she had to fix it. Consuming her mind! Where was the escape from this agony? Was there any on the other side? Who could say, communication wasn’t worth it. Likely not, that was the trademark of the game. In which case, what did it matter if she wasn’t dead yet? Didn’t know if the cats would follow.

No, think of something else! The uncomfortable floor, the glare of the light, sounds of silence, her least hated book, the nature of a glass house, even bring out the childhood, anything but the—

Cats. “Cats, cats, cats!” she roared, stomping. Vile bastards, even the world wasn’t enough, they were dominating her head! Was nothing sacred? No. Regardless, regodless.

No more of it! Wretched cats had to go—if she can’t get away, she’ll do away! Make use of her current condition then, the unicorn decided and rose, grunting in satisfaction. Embrace life now, and when death came, she’d embrace that too! Make them all hers. She tore open the door, vigor in her veins.

No time for cleaning herself or considering aches, Rarity stormed out of the house.

She was going to conquer every damned cat that came her way.