是這樣。
野貓不「出現」。
野貓是入侵。
他們進來。
不敲門。
不解釋。
然後你就知道——
你把自己賣太便宜了。
OnlyFans。
漲價。
不是建議。
是矯正。
—
他們吃。
不是吃東西。
是吃回來。
一口一口。
把「餓」這件事拆掉。
像復仇。
像討債。
像飢餓親自留下的後果。
—
對。我有 OnlyFans。
不。連結不給。
不。襪子不賣。
不。我也不喜歡你。
三個不。
夠了。
—
墨白。
墨汁。
白紙。
黑墨。
沒有象徵。
只是發生。
—
墨白。
四隻。
剩一隻。
閣樓。
太高。
太大。
太暗。
下不來。
抓不到。
喝不到。
所以她們變少。
不是一次。
是慢慢。
喝：自己的尿。
吃：爬進來的蟋蟀、蜘蛛、壁虎。
我找到她的時候——
沒有掙扎。
沒有聲音。
沒有要求。
只剩形狀。
像一個曾經活過的東西。
—
墨汁。
更乾淨一點的殘忍。
他媽活著。
但他被刪掉。
不是意外。
是選擇。
兄弟姊妹：讓他餓。
長輩：讓他怕。
課程很短：
你最後。
你最少。
你閉嘴。
—
每一餐：
暴力。
配菜：
輕蔑。
—
每一晚：
複習。
你是錯的。
—
人類會問「為什麼」。
貓不會。
—
沒有貓會說：報應。
沒有貓會說：神。
沒有貓會說：你活該。
沒有貓需要一個理由，
來吞下一個爛掉的生命。
唯一一個問題，和人一樣：
媽媽為什麼不要我？
—
「不配」是人發明的。
很好用。
讓你跪著，
說謝謝。
—
這就是宗教。
—
美國短毛貓。
標準答案：
不在乎。
看你一眼，
都是浪費。
—
這兩隻不是。
他們計算。
找一個
暫時不傷害他們的東西。
然後——
黏上去。
不是愛。
是存活。
但存活會變形。
變成呼嚕。
變成重量。
變成你以為的需要。
—
牠們會打。
不是玩。
是真的。
—
狗跟不上。
所以改造自己。
拆掉。
重組。
Tyler Durden 上身。
沒有解釋。
—
我養過很多。
貴的。
純的。
被設計過的。
雪鞋。
暹羅。
布偶。
摺耳。
還有一個過胖的錯誤，
一直掉毛，
把整個空間改寫成他自己。
—
那時候我在講電話。
血統。
基因。
曲線。
如何做出「更好」。
—
然後他們進來。
沒有血統。
沒有批准。
沒有未來。
—
他們沒有問。
—
他們留下。
—
白紙。
—
黑墨。
—
沒有意義。
沒有救贖。
沒有解釋。
—
只有牙齒。
—
只有呼嚕。
—
還有一個結果：
故事不一樣了。
因為他們還活著。
—
Here’s the thing about wild pussies forcing their way into your life: it means you should charge more for your OnlyFans. Fact.
These feral cats eat. They eat like they’re settling a score with hunger itself. Like hunger personally fucked their mothers.
Yes, I have an OnlyFans. No, you can’t have the link. No, I won’t sell you my socks. No, I don’t like you. That’s three nos. Write them down.
Meet Mo Bai and Mo Zhe. Blanc paper. Dark ink.
Mo Bai is what’s left. One of four attic kittens. The other three? Gone. Her mother — some ignorant redneck — picked an attic. Picked height. Picked a place where kittens couldn’t climb down to hunt, to reach water, to do anything but starve in the rafters and drink their own piss and eat alligator lizards and spiders that wandered too close to the wrong opening.
I don’t know what she did up there to survive. I know what she looked like when I got to her. Emaciated. Past hiding. Past protesting. Past caring.
Mo Zhe is the other kind of orphan. The worse kind. The kind whose mother is alive and chose. Chose other males. Chose to run. Chose to make him accept a fate not of his making. His brothers and sisters starved him on purpose. His uncles and aunts bit and clawed him, threatened him, made sure he understood the family hierarchy: you stay small, you stay scared, you stay grateful for whatever’s left after they were done. Every meal’s main course is violence with a side of disdain. Every night came with new ways to be reminded you were born wrong.
The only mercy: cats don’t have religion. No cat ever told another cat you deserved this. No cat invented a god to explain why the runt eats last forever. No cat weaponized unworthiness. No cat said you weren’t a good enough slave. No cat, let alone a mother, ever said you weren’t reincarnate into a family of love, wealth and better genetics because you weren’t pious enough in your previous life. Religion is strictly a human scam. We own that one.
American Shorthairs are the gold standard for not giving a fuck. The kind of cat that looks at you like you’re the one who should be grateful for the privilege of feeding it. These two came out the other side of that philosophy and decided the best way to survive was to glue themselves to the nearest warm idiot who didn’t immediately bring them suffering and pain. And needless to say, they are both ninjas who knows how to fight. The dog had to adopt a Tyler Durden persona just to keep up.
They are the funniest, most loving pussies I’ve ever had. And I’ve had pussies. Premium. Exotic. Expensive. Snowshoe. Siamese. Ragdoll. Scottish Fold. A chonky stupid Norwegian Longhair that shed like it was trying to reupholster my house in his own disappointment. I was literally on the phone with a eugenecist talking bloodlines and curl patterns of Devon Rexes when these two broke in and decided my life was now their full-time job.
Blanc paper.
Dark Ink.
Rewriting the whole fucking story in teeth and purrs.