Armed With Feathers
By Trudy A. Martinez
I came up pillow in hand. Resounding agitations arouse not only me but also my anger. With a fury, I hurl the pillow in the direction of the origination of the noise. Kit knows not to scratch the chair; that cat knows better. The racket her nails make, protruding inward, pulling outward, creates a reverberating, irritating, and displeasing noise. The noise awakes not only me but also a demon who seeks her out.
“It’s only 4:00 A.M…” I scream. “Leave me alone. I want to sleep.” And then I exclaim with dramatic emphasis, shaking a finger at her while I speak. “Don’t you dare touch that chair again with your nails?”
Her body stretches out and moves upward while her nails position themselves in the chair ready to scratch. When the sound of my angry voice reaches her ears, she stops. She glares at me. She tests my patience.
I stare back. She releases her nails from the upholstery. She then slowly moves away in defeat. “Now get out of here!” I exclaim as I hurl another pillow as she exits.
“She’ll be back.” I think. “Maybe, just maybe I can grab a few winks before then.”