Interlude:

  He walked into his house. It was quite dark. It always was. He hated too bright a room. He moved around the poorly illuminated room with ease. He knew where every figure was and what every silhouette represented. He stripped off the blood-ridden clothes and stepped into the bathroom.

  He allowed the cold water to wash the blood off his body. It was quite soothing till he felt a sting in his palm. It was the water washing over a cut he never knew he had sustained. Using a knife could be something quite tricky. You would cut yourself no matter how good you were at using it. He remembered the first time he used one. He was almost bleeding as much as the person he stabbed with it. He looked at the new cut in his palm among others of different sizes, each having its own story.

  He relished the moments that were flooding his head. Killing the cat was more fun than he expected, and he enjoyed every moment of it. From it struggling to get away from him to watching blood drain from its body. He knew how much she loved cats, and he could only imagine what her reaction would be. Being relieved it wasn’t her mom or more distraught it was her cat. Arranging the cat with the pillows was such a funny idea. An idea from the voice stuck in his head. He wished he could have hung around to see her reaction, but it would be quite risky to do so.

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  He'd always hated cats. Those over pampered and overprotected animals. A wild cat would have gotten away or tried better to, and a dog would have fought better. They quickly got so comfortable with the pampering they forgot they were animals. Those stupid creatures.

  He remembered how Grandma beat him for beating her cats, which he would retaliate against the cat again, hence creating an endless circle of beating. She also loved her cat very much. More than she loved him, if she ever did. She spent more money taking care of the cat and tending to its needs than she did on him. She bought all sorts of expensive cat food and toys while he walked around wearing raggedy clothes, which he always got mocked for.

  He stepped out of the bathroom dripping wet, a bit cold from the cold bath, which only worsened with the cool air hitting his skin.

  He picked the clothes from the ground and stuck them in the washing machine.

  He walked to the kitchen to make a cup of tea and picked up a loaf of bread. He came back to the living room to switch on the television to watch his favorite series, The Penguins of Madagascar. The only series he ever watched. He had about 120 episodes of it, which he reshuffled every night.

  He sat on the sofa to watch and laugh cynically the night away.