v i s c e r a l s t o r i e s

I'm Sorry, Jon

Jon Arbuckle woke up disheveled, his hair spiking out in 25 directions, his breath smells like the sewage, he feels like he stormed in vain, and there's an orange feline hair sticking in his tongue. His cynically loveable cat must've slept on his face again, he thought.

"Garfield," Jon called lazily as he got up from the bed and opened his closet to prepare the functional clothes he'll wear for today; snappy outfits that earned his title "fashion emergency". Jon knew that his choice of clothing wouldn't compensate for his lack of social skills but nonetheless, whatever his hand touch, that's what he'll wear for the day, no matter how fancy it is. He didn't care.

"Hey Garfield!" he called again, licking his lips. His mouth feels like a desert. The sun wasn't shining through the tapestry of blue curtains. He peeped out on the windows tainted with streaks from heavy rain to look at his garden blooming with hydrangeas. It's unusually silent. The sky is dark. It's a bad weather day, and that cat isn't answering me, he muttered under his stinky breath. It must be having its usual promenade outside. Thinking that Garfield is nowhere to be seen, he called for his dog Odie.

No bark came as a reply.

Weird. Usually it is Odie that will come to him as soon as he wakes up, even stumbling on its way just to greet him and lick his face. Where are those two and what could they be possibly doing when the weather isn't as nice as he wants it to be?

Jon dragged his legs, staggering towards the kitchen to prepare breakfast — the usual cup of decaffeinated coffee and whatever is on his fridge — and he also threw some lasagna on the microwave for Garfield and filled Odie's tray with dog food.

Jon then noticed it, this viscous, beige liquid trailing into the living room. Did Odie carry something filthy inside the house? He brought his cup of coffee with him and heads toward the living room to find out.

The sight made Jon gag, he dropped the cup and it shattered after it hit the floor, contemptuous fear vibrating through his bones and his gaze roamed across the room. He felt floating from the deep spin of shock. His heart flustered with tears: and horror.

Odie, or what seemed to be the remains of Odie were scattered on the floor like a messy road kill. The room smells like the charnel bowels of something putrefactive. There is blood everywhere, painting the walls in the deepest shade of red, caked with flesh. His dog was torn into ribbons, and flies proliferates at this moment. Odie's viscera erupted from what looks like a part of its belly, and Jon could tell that those two severed paws truly belongs to his beloved dog.

The dead dog spoke an unspeakable horror, Jon was frozen on his spot, he didn't mind the hot coffee soaking his feet. He was more compelled to this gruesome scene that happened in his living room.

"I was starving after I abandoned my physical form. It was limiting." a voice sepulchral in tone spoke from above, followed by ticking sounds.

"The foolish canine was there to provide sustenance. He'd been a good friend, so I gave Odie an honor to become a part of me."

Jon moved his head to the owner of the voice. Jon couldn't believe what he's looking at.

It was Garfield, or a monstrous anomaly that looked like Garfield. It has Garfield's appearance, except that the rest of its body looks like that of an obese arachnid, eldritch body horror crawling on the ceiling.

Its whiskers were twisted, its eyes were burning in hellish phosphorescence, its imminent gaze fueling his nauseating fear. Jon was too afraid to move. He thought that anytime, it could administer its killing blow to him or whatever-god-knows this dodgy thing is capable of.

What is this thing I'm looking at? Jon asked an unfathomable question to himself. Madness — or something worse — could only create this atrocity without masquerading its obscene configuration. An unnamable horror that ravished itself on carnage. Jon isn't sure if he want some answers. This can't be true.