When The Cat Comes Calling
By: Timothy O'Neill
Tags: Fiction, Mental Health, Cats, Self Harm, Short Story

When The Cat Comes Calling

Damian was in his room with a box cutter. He was dragging the blade across his upper arms, leaving long bloody gashes. His t-shirt was ruined. He took it off and dabbed at his wounds. Most were superficial. One or two would require stiches. When he started he couldn’t stop. He had to cut deeper, deeper until his blood trickled off the tips of his fingers and pooled on the floor, until he was pale and woozy and on death’s doorstep. It was savage. It was frenzied. The only thing that could interrupt a cutting spree was his cat, Bruce, pawing at his door to be let in. He could never do this in front of Bruce. Bruce was pure innocence and this was not that. Sometimes he prayed for Bruce to come and save him from himself. One time he was so faint from blood loss he had been on his knees screaming for his feline companion.

“Bruce! I need to see you, Bruce!”

Bruce flew up the stairs and Damian let the boxcutter drop with a clang and rolled over to catch his breath. Then he dialed 911. He needed a blood transfusion and dozens of stiches. After they patched him up they sent him over to the psych ward for six weeks. Every day he prayed to God, thanking him for sending Bruce his way and promising never to harm himself again.

After the six straight month of lethargy, anhedonia and constant dissociation, Damian broke his promise. Now it was just him and the boxcutter. He could have called out for his parents, but he always thought he could clean his mess up before they noticed. And that was generally the case. But this time Bruce was late and he had now taken off his pants and was slashing at his thighs.

“Please, God, let me stop. Just let me stop.”

Slash. Slash. Slash.

Then a soft but unmistakable, “Meow”.

Damian shuffled over in his boxers, dripping blood all over the floor, looking like he had just killed someone, and opened the door.

There stood Bruce. He was a gorgeous cat, with piercing blue eyes, pale gray fur and long, lean body. He looked up at Damian with concern.

“Meow. Meow. MOW! MOW!”

“I’m sorry, bud. It’s bad, I know.”

His right hand released its grip on the boxcutter. It hit the floor and the sound seemed to waken Damian from his trance.

“What am I going to do now, Bruce? I don’t want to go the hospital. But sometimes you pass the point of no return and you gotta make peace with it, you know?”

Bruce nuzzled his left ankle then his right, then hopped up on his bed.

Damian took a seat next to him and continued to bleed.

“I’m so tired. Why can’t I just kill myself, Bruce? Why do you think I do this?”

Bruce tried to hop up into his lap, but Damian held him at bay.

“I’m getting you all bloody, Bruce. What would Mom say? What will she say? I’ll be gone for months this time. They might not ever let me out.”

“Meow. MOW.”

“I know, buddy. It’s bad. I’m scared, Bruce. I feel weak all over. Should I wake Mom? Should I call 911? I’m hurting them. I’m hurting all of them. Imagine, Bruce. Imagine walking in and finding your baby boy like this.”

Bruce was sitting upright. He raised a paw and put it gently on Damian’s shoulder. He lowered it, then lifted it again, almost like he was patting him.

“Thanks, Bruce.”

Damian started sobbing.

“The meds don’t work, Bruce. Therapy doesn’t work. Volunteering and going to school and being social and exercising and taking supplements, none of it works. I’m fucking depressed and I’ll fucking be depressed forever. Where is that fucking boxcutter?”

Damian slid off the bed and went to grab it but Bruce got there first. He stood over it like a sentinel.

“Meow.”

“I’m doing what I should have done years ago. I’m ending this cycle of misery. I’m putting myself in a position where I can’t possibly hurt anyone else. They deserve to be free of me and I deserve a goddamn break from this hell. Get out of the way, Bruce.”

Then the unthinkable happened. Bruce got up on two legs and hissed at him.

It was just enough to break his momentum. Damian turned around and dialed 911.

“What’s your emergency?”

“I’ve cut myself and I’ve lost a lot of blood and I feel very weak.”

“The paramedics are on their way. Are you sitting down? Is there anyone with you?”

“I’m on my bed. My parents are asleep.”

“Are you still holding the sharp object?”

“No.”

“Where are the cuts located?”

“On my upper arms and my thighs.”

“And you say you’ve lost a lot of blood, but you’re still awake and aware?”

“The wall is melting. That’s weird. Time to go, I guess.”

“Sir? Sir!”

He required yet another blood transfusion, thirty more stiches, a course of antibiotics, all sorts of creams and lotions and bandages that had to be changed twice a day. The whole time he was in the hospital there was a security officer standing outside his room. He was only fed meals that required no utensils.

When he was medically stabilized his father came to visit him.

“Why do you do this to us?”

“I’m not doing this to you,” Damian snarled. “You’re collateral damage.”

“Is that really the way you see your mother and me?”

“I don’t see you at all.”

“You understand you’re acting like a lunatic, right? No one does this to themselves. No one.”

Damian sighed. Arguing the point was futile. His father had a very particular notion of how the world operated and he would not give it up no matter how much blowback he received from the universe.

“How’s Mom?”

“Devastated. We all thought you were past this. One of the paramedics told me not to go into your room, that it looked like a murder scene.”

“Depression isn’t something you just get past.”

“It was for me. I’d get down and then I’d pull myself up out of my rut and keep pushing forward. And I would never drag anyone down with me. I’m a lot of things, Damian, but selfish isn’t one of them.”

“And I’m selfish for trying to survive a life I don’t want?”

“I heard they’re transferring you to the state hospital in Brooskville. I hope they keep you for a year. You have some serious soul-searching to do.”

“I keep searching for a soul and I keep coming up empty.”

His father got to his feet and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“I do love you. No matter what. It’s too much pain for one lifetime, Damian. Let it go.”

Damian could only nod.

“Alright,” his father said, giving his shoulder a pat. “I should be stopping by before they transfer you. Is there anything you need back at the house?”

He was about to say ‘Bruce’, but thought better of it. Instead he asked for the collected works of H.P. Lovecraft and the new book he had recently picked up on the Boston Massacre. And for a bag of sour gummy worms.

His father nodded and headed out.

Nine months later Damian was finally released from the hospital. They currently had him on three antidepressants, two mood stabilizers, one antipsychotic, one med for sleep and a PRN for anxiety. They seemed to be helping. They were temporarily distracting him from the black hole at the center of himself. He posture had improved. He was speaking with more confidence. He didn’t like the restrictions of the hospital, no one did, but he had learned to flow with the routine and soon days were passing like seconds. Expressive therapy was his favorite group, but he attended them all. He remembered one exchange he had had with a clinician after a group on self-destructive behaviors.

“What if you don’t care enough about yourself to stop?”

“You put yourself in the shoes of the person you love most in this world and you try to see your situation from their perspective. They love you totally and unconditionally and yet they feel utterly powerless to stop you from destroying yourself. You’re a smart guy. I don’t have to tell you that that’s a shitty way to feel.”

“And what if you think you deserve it?”

“Why? And who made you judge, jury and executioner?”

“I’m worthless. All I do is hurt people who want to help.”

“I’m going to validate your emotions right now because that’s the truth you’re living, but I’m also going to say that’s a bunch of BS.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah. We’re going to build your self esteem and demolish your toxic shame. Are you ready to head down this road? It’s a bumpy one.”

“I’m ready.”

His parents took him back in, but he had to sign an agreement with them. If he violated the agreement he would have two days to find a new place to live. The agreement went as follows:

No alcohol or drugs in the house

No sharp objects in your room

We can search your room and pat you down whenever we please

You must be honest with us about how you’re feeling. If you’re having intrusive thoughts you need to let us know.

10 pm curfew

Every other day Dad will perform skin checks, if there is any evidence of cutting, burning or bruising we will section you.

Your bedroom is for sleeping and sleeping only. You must be in the den or the living room or out in the world.

We love you dearly and we hope we can all move past this painful chapter of our lives

Damian fulfilled the terms and conditions. He had to swallow his pride. He had nowhere else to go. Eventually he got hired as a seasonal laborer for the Department of Public Works. His job was to whack the weeds and oddly he found this immensely satisfying. But then one day when he was out in the parking lot, about to get in his car, one of the guys in the Tree department whistled to get attention.

“What’s up?”

Jack approached him with a sheepish grin. He held out his hand and there were six Percocet in his palm.

“Twenty bucks. Hell of a deal.”

“Drugs aren’t really my thing.”

“Come on. I have to get them off me before I accidentally drop them in front of the wife.”

“Get in the car.”

They both got in Damian’s car and Damian pulled out a crisp twenty dollar bill and handed it to Jack. Jack then handed over the pills.

They were Perc 10’s. Damian popped them all the moment he got home. He was getting a gentle brain massage that was sending warm tingles all over his body. He was totally relaxed. There was nothing that couldn’t be fixed with love. For the first time in years he wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything. Everything had suddenly become so darn manageable. This was the way he wished he could feel always and forever, but nothing artificially produced could ever last. The brain made adjustments in the the effort to return to homeostasis.

Then it hit him. He had no more death anxiety. This might have been the sign he had been looking for. It was ironic that euphoria and bliss was driving him to suicide, but such was the extent of his trauma’s effect on his mind.

He had cut a secret compartment in wallet that just barely fit a razor blade. He usually showered when he got home from work so the timing was perfect. There would be no suspicion.

What are you doing? A quiet voice asked. We were on track. We were healing. Why now?

“Because one is too many and a thousand is never enough,” Damian whispered, parroting an AA aphorism.

He turned the water on, shifted the handle to hot and then stripped off his clothes. He looked at his naked body in the mirror. So much purple and angry red and faded white. Damian started to cry.

“I didn’t want this! I didn’t ask for this! Looking at this! Fucking look at this!”

He held his arms up and twirled around.

Razor blade in hand, Damian stepped into the shower. Now he had a decision to make: carotid, ulnar or femoral?

Before he could make up his mind he heard scratching at the door. No way. Bruce had to be put down while he was in the hospital. So who, or what, was this?

“Yeah?” he called out.

“Meow.”

Damian stepped out of the shower, put the razor on the counter, wrapped a towel around himself and opened the door a crack.

Bruce pushed his way through.

“Not possible. Don’t do this to me, God. Please don’t do this to me. My father was right. I’m a lunatic.”

Bruce stared up at him impassively.

“Why can’t I just do it, Bruce? Why do I have to keep fighting with myself? Are you even real?”

As if responding to his question Bruce rose on his hind legs and put two paws in the air. Damian scooped him up and held him tightly to his chest. Bruce was radiating heat and his soft, furry body felt so good against the skin he had brutalized.

“We were best buds, weren’t we Bruce?”

“Meow.”

“How can I ever pay you back?”

“Meow meow.”

Then a quiet voice whispered:

Serve

An hour later Damian finally put Bruce down and let him go. He never saw him again in his lifetime. But he never forgot the cat who came calling when he was circling the abyss. The absence of judgment revealed the presence of a love deeper than the deepest ocean. Every night he thanked Bruce in his prayers.

Years later Damian earned his master’s degree and started a private therapy practice. His lived experience coupled with his education made him preternaturally empathetic. He was always kind. He was always patient. He always accepted and understood.

And he always wished everyone had a Bruce in their lives.