I swear you’ve already posted this before.
i’m inquiring why i’m standing the middle of a circle of cats in a pitch-black room that I don’t recognise, looking deeply into the flickering candles that jut through the perfectly smooth floorboards now. is this the box? have I been boxed in?
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update: the cats are on the ceiling now. at least, I assume that what they’re standing on is ceiling, and not air. I can’t really see very well in here. I’ve tried looking around the splintered plastic-like wood through which the candles jut, just through the tiny gaps, and all I can see is a faint yellow. The candles are starting to flicker a little more. How much oxygen is afforded to those who have been boxed in?
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i’d prefer it if the cats didn’t turn bipedal on the presumed ceiling ten metres above me every few seconds, looking for just a moment as if they’d transform into the cats from Cats (2019). It doesn’t make this whole situation any better.
at least, laughter is my best approximation for the sound they’re making. the perfectly smooth, textureless water dripping from their eyes faintly trinkles into small pale blue dots on the floor below. all i can see of them in the fading light, as the liquid slowly snuffs out a few of the candles, is just the faint reflections of the sickly yellow light off their downwards looking faces.
the box is wide. and yet in all four corners of the box there are cats in the skies, and the tears continue, curving through the still air in strange ways, as if there were wind in this formless void, inside the box, passing through no cracks and making no impression upon anything but the flopping liquid. is this water? do i have to drink it? its’ acrylic dicoloration makes me not want to drink it, but at some point I must.
where is the box
how does one become boxed in
why are the cats moving like this
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“You fucked up, Marshal.” I say to the ceiling, as if the cats were somehow linked to the Texan’s ears through the inexorable fabric of joycats. “You fucked up by unleashing this upon us, no, fuck that, upon me!”, I say, tears running down my cheeks, although not my tears. I catch the faintest whiff of the pale blue pus, and the smell pierces through me, its’ sacharrine sulphur flooding my nose.
The candles seem to grow longer with their shadows, the spikes growing that much more deadly as the light fades. The laughing grows to a caucophany. The lights burn out, and for the briefest moment in the encroaching dark I see each and every ember as a great flame to burn out the world to a husk, to burn the joycats, to burn me, my only company apart from the cats and the laughing.
And then all light fades from the chamber.
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A few days later, the police discover the body of a 17-year old, dripping, but only where they aren’t looking. He is covered in clawmarks. Some of them form a pattern:
“
I AM BOXED IN ”, at least roughly.
Cause of death is deemed to be drowning, despite there being no water anywhere in the victim’s body.
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