Not Your Kitten

Chapter 1

"Thanks for watching this video, and have a nice day! Lucy Lee, out!" I smile at the camera, then get up and press the "stop" button. I'll edit it later. Right now, I need to eat.

I walk into the kitchen and pull open the fridge. A blast of cool air hits my nose. Dang it - I forgot I finished the pasta last night. All that's left in the fridge is a dish of congealed tomato soup and some squishy oranges. Well, I need to go grocery shopping anyway. I grab a couple reusable bags and my wallet and head out the back door.

The grocery store is right behind my house. I ease into a light jog along the shortcut, my sneakers sinking into the moss. A breeze ruffles the tall grass on either side of me.

Suddenly, someone leaps in front of me, grabs my arm, and puts their hand over my mouth. I try to scream, but I can't. Their grip is like iron.

"I'm going to take my hand off of your mouth. If you scream, I will not hesitate to shoot." The person uncovers my mouth, pulls a silver gun from their pocket, and holds it against my head. "Now, we're going back to your house, and you're going to lock all of the doors. Then I will explain the rules."

I manage to nod.

The person - a man, I'm guessing, by the sound of their voice - turns me around and shoves me forward. I stumble, but catch myself, and continue walking towards my house.

We reach the back door and I open it, with shaking hands. He pushes me inside and slams the door behind him.

Finally, he lets go of my arm, but keeps the gun trained on my head. "Lock the doors."

I fumble for my keys on the counter, and lock the back door. Then I go to the front door, and lock that, too. I even go down to the basement and lock that door.

The man puts a hand on my back and leads me to the living room. He sits me down on the couch and places the cold barrel of the gun against my chest.

"Lucy, I have been watching your videos and reading your stories since you started," he begins. "In the years since, I've grown more and more in love. But not with you as a person - I could tell that you didn't want to be human. I could see it in your eyes. I knew that you would be much happier as a cat, and I would love you much more as a cat. So I did some snooping and found out where you lived.

"You are going to be my pet. Not the sexual kind, mind you. You will include me in your videos, write stories about me on Wewrite, and post pictures of us together on Instagram. You will not tell anyone that I am forcing you to do these things. If you do, you die. Do you understand?"

I swallow. My heart feels like it's beating out of my chest. "Yes."

"Good." The man pulls off his ski mask, revealing his face.

I'd been expecting him to be ugly, but he's pretty average. He has pale skin, stubble on his chin, and greasy brown hair. His eyes are dark. "My name is Dudley." He holds out his hand.

I reach out with a trembling hand and shake it. His hand is cold and clammy, and his fingers are long and thin.

He smirks. "Let's start with a simple social media post, shall we? Pull out your phone."

I take out my phone and swipe to open it. Should I call the police? I probably could, but he'd shoot me.

As if he was reading my mind, he hisses, "Don't call anyone, or you're dead."

I open up Instagram and click the "Add Post" button. It gives me the option to take a picture, and I do. With shaking hands, I hold out the phone, and he gets in the frame. The sharp stench of body odor permeates my nose. I manage a weak smile, and click the picture.

"Add a caption." His smile grows wider. "Tell them that I am your new boyfriend. Tell them that you love me."

I begin typing. " 'I met someone new recently, and fell in love!' " I type. " 'Meet my new boyfriend!' " I post the picture.

"Perfect." Dudley claps his hands and giggles like a little kid. "Now go change into something prettier. I can't have my kitten dressed in leggings and a sweater."

He follows me into the bedroom, and I shiver as I realize he'll be watching me undress. I slowly take off my sweater and my leggings. He's so close that I can feel his hot breath against my cold skin.

"W-what should I w-wear?" Tears threaten to burst out of my eyes, but I hold them in. I have to be strong. While he's sleeping tonight, I can sneak out and go to the police.

"I'll find something for you." Dudley yanks open my closet door and searches through. "Ugh, how bland! We're going to have to go shopping tomorrow, princess. We can get you some pretty dresses, my treat! But for now, this will have to do." He pulls out a short, sparkly party dress, leftover from my teenage years, and hands it to me.

I put it on. The thin fabric scratches my skin. Then, Dudley brings me to the bathroom, and sits me on a stool. "Shh, princess. You just relax," he croons, plugging in my curling iron. "Prince is going to curl your hair, so you can look pretty for him."

While the iron is heating up, he runs his fingers through my hair.

I shudder, and knock his hands away. "Don't touch me!" I shout.

Dudley's face darkens, and he pulls out his gun once more. "Princesses don't act out," he says, slowly. "I think it's time for me to use my special punishment on you, don't you agree?"

My blood runs cold. "W-what?"

Dudley frowns. "Don't you agree... kitten?"

I step back, and Dudley grabs my arm. "Go into the kitchen. Blood will come off the tiles easier in there."

I walk to the kitchen; I have no other choice. Oh god, is he going to kill me?

He roughly shoves me down onto the floor, puts down his bag, and roots through it. He pulls out a small vial of liquid and a syringe, which he fills. In one fluid motion, he injects the liquid into my neck.

I feel myself growing numb. I can't move my arms, or my legs, or anything - damn.

Dudley walks out of the room, and comes back carrying a pillow from my couch. He puts it against the base of the counter, and sits me up against it, so I can see everything he's doing to me.

He takes out a knife, and a large, lumpy package. He sets the package down, and unwraps it.

My heart stops.

It's two lion legs.

Dudley takes the knife and begins sawing off my foot. I can't open my mouth to scream; I can't even feel the pain. Tears flow from my eyes anyway as I watch him cut off my lower leg. The knife gets through the skin and muscle, grinds through the bone, and slices through the stuff underneath.

He tosses away the remains and touches the bloody end of the lion leg to the bloody end of my thigh.

"Your leg is too fat," he murmurs. "I'll have to shave away some of it." He uses the knife to cut off strips of the end of my thigh away, narrowing it until it ends in a thinner stump. Then he drops the knife and picks me up. I can't resist, and I'm growing woozier by the second.

Dudley places me on the counter and turns up the flames on my gas stove. My heart pounds. Without missing a beat, he takes a screwdriver from his pocket and uses it to take off the grid covering the flame. Then, he lifts up my thigh and places it on the fire.

I can't feel anything, but more tears roll down my face anyway. The remaining flesh ripples and burns, turning black. The heat stops the bleeding, though - leaving my thigh covered in charred black skin.

He places me on the floor again, reopens the wound on the bottom of my thigh, and positions the lion leg against my stump. Then, he cuts the leg open, separates all of the ends of the bones and muscles, and painstakingly attaches each one to the corresponding bone or muscle in my leg. Finally, he takes out a suturing needle and thread, and sews it all together.

I'm already dizzy, and when I see him begin to cut off the lower part of my other leg, I can't take it.

I sink into unconsciousness.