Ten Minute Story, Part 1

The cat wouldn't shut up.

The room was cold--much colder than it should have been, even for the middle of January. The sun was streaming in, forcing its way through the slats of the blinds, prying its way under the pillow jammed over Charlie's face and needled into their eyes--but it wasn't making the room any warmer. Outside, a man was doing important research about just how loudly he could operate a leaf-blower. In the hallway, someone was opening the trash chute and hurling what sounded to be pairs of shoes, tied together by their laces, as hard as they could into the chute. The world seemed to be executing a coordinated assault.

But it was the cat that was really getting under their skin. That goddamn cat.

It wouldn't stop meowing. Long, slow, drawling meows, forlorn and lamenting, occasionally punctuated with the occasional, piercing rawr. It stood outside the bedroom door and cried out again and again. The bedroom door was open, mind you, and there was food in its dish and water in its cup--but there it stood, voicing its objection and its protest again and again.

"Whaaaaaat do you waaaaaaant?" Charlie groaned from the bed. They could hardly bear to drag themself from beneath the piles of pillows and blankets. No matter what the sun, or the bustle of activity outside, or the goddamn cat might have to say to the contrary, it was simply too early to get out of bed.