Waiting. Won’t get past me now. Thinks she can run off, do as she pleases. Slink back down the tracks, eat and drink and pretend she’s authentic. Adaptable? Two years of transformation. She’s of a different class now. Doesn’t she understand you can’t go back?
Transformation. Better than being born and bred. By my hands, she is all shine and sophisticated. Cultured. No longer a member of the disadvantaged. No family member of mine takes to the alleys. Embarrass me? No, it makes me feel my time was all a waste. I gave her a home, the sweet liquid of life.
Turn her back on me? No, I’ll never allow her to roam the streets again.
What does she think? I’m some kind of fool who’ll turn the other cheek, look beyond her slutty behavior? Let her carouse with a low life; ignore me? What is better than regular meals, a warm bed, constant affection? Yes, I met her physical needs. I asked nothing in return except—yes, except one thing. Loyalty.
What is so difficult about the simple act of remaining at one’s side? No, the door wasn’t open to the outside world, outside interest. My decision, not hers. What’s so-called friends anyway? Inconveniences, expectations, opportunities to stray. I never denied her the freedom of viewing the world through my window. A wide window at that. I shared my everyday experiences, encounters, even the occasional rendezvous. Not many. But no harm lying in bed together and sharing harmless details.
Loyalty. My only expectation. Now she’ll pay the price for her wandering nature. The trap is set. No escape again.
And there she is. Slinking against the wall. Won’t get past me. Mint in hand, a bowl of warm milk.
“Come here, you little slut bastard. Kitty, kitty, kitty.”
Wil A. Emerson writes. Often on a whim, more often on a concentrated path to see her work in print. Ego or driven by madness, she’s doesn’t stray far from the goal of amusing readings. Satire, mysteries, dead or deadly. She hates warm milk, likes writers. Paints, too.
Punk Noir Magazine 
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