Grim anthology. Christine Johnson

* *

      I’m four inches long. My plush fake fur is black, except for my paws, which are white. My eyes are stitched yellow-thread rings surrounding felt black centers. Their perfect roundness makes me look perpetually astonished.

      All of this I’d forgotten, because when no one holds you for...years?...you lose sense of your shape.

      All of this I remember, because Eli has thrown me against the wall and I’ve landed, fortuitously, in front of a full-length mirror.

      My puffy white forepaws extend forward, like I’m asking for double fist bumps, or worse, protecting myself. But nothing can hurt me, aside from being ignored.

      Eli is ignoring me. In the mirror I see him sitting cross-legged on the double bed, his back turned. The fan is on low now, its wood-and-metal arms making lazy circles, casting hazy shadows on the ceiling and the girl in the poster.

      I examine what details I can, to determine Eli’s state of living. His dresser and nightstand are basic pale wood, IKEA-ish. The boots sticking out from under the bed appear to be Timberland knockoffs. His jeans and black T-shirt are threadbare and distressed, but that might be the style still (or again). Through the floor I hear his mother in the kitchen, opening the oven door, then letting the door crash shut. A two-story house, then. Eli and his mother seem neither rich nor poor.

      My gaze sweeps the walls for a calendar. I’m used to lying dormant for years between allies, but not knowing how many years is unsettling. Eli’s father crammed me into that envelope in 1997, when the world was throwing itself at his feet. He thought he didn’t need me anymore. I wonder how that worked out.

      Some months or years later, Gordon opened the envelope, but only to add the note, which Eli read to his friend Tyler over the phone.

      

      

      “My dear Elias,

      Of all my sons, I’ve given you the least in life, so in death I give you the most.

      This wee kitty has been more than a good-luck charm to me. It’s been a friend, perhaps the most loyal one I’ve ever had. I advise you to keep it at your side at all times if you want to succeed. And when (not if, but when) you find that success, do not make my arrogant mistake and cast the cat aside. Give credit where credit is due.

      Your father,

      Gordon Wylde”

      

      

      Tyler laughed his ass off, naturally, and then Eli threw me across the room, where I wait, neither patiently nor impatiently, since I do not feel.

      I do have opinions, however, an important one of which is forming now: Eli has more musical genius in that pouty lower lip than his father had in his entire body. His voice needs no enhancing, and his playing needs no amplification. He could most likely make hundreds a day busking in a subway station. God only knows what a decent record label could do for him.

      But he needs more than talent. He needs me. Not just to set him on the path to greatness, but to keep him there. When inevitable misfortunes beset him, he must believe he’s destined. He must believe that luck is on his side.

      First, however, he must believe in me.

      Eli draws in a sudden hiss of pain between his teeth, then shakes out his hand. He’s played too long.

      Sucking the pad of his right thumb, he turns and slides off the bed. For a moment I wonder what it would be like to unfold long legs so effortlessly—or to move at all. He lays the guitar in its case and starts to close the lid.

      Eli, wait.

      He hesitates but doesn’t look at me.

      You can’t hear my words yet, I tell him, but you can feel what I want. Please, put me inside. It all starts there.

      Eli snatches me up by one ear, then drops me facedown in the compartment in the guitar case’s neck. “There, Dad. Happy?”

      He slams the lid shut and flips the latches. But instead of shoving the guitar case back under the bed where he got it, he lays his hand over the place where I am, pressing this end of the case against the floor. The carpet gives a little.

      All it takes is a little belief to bring me to life.

      Thank you, Eli.

      His breathing stops. A soft suction pop marks his sore thumb coming out of his mouth.

      I’m inside the case. But don’t worry, I won’t suffocate. I don’t breathe.

      Eli’s whimper has a question mark at the end.

      Yes, I’m real. Sort of. I used to know your father. If he bequeathed me to you, it means that you were important to him. Or that I was not. In any case, we’re together now.

      “What the—” The latches rattle as he fumbles to open them. The lid lifts, letting in light.

      Eli doesn’t pick me up. I wish I could see his expression, but I’m still facedown and can’t turn over.

      He tugs my tail. “I’m going insane.”

      On the contrary, you have a normal, healthy imagination. That’s what keeps me alive.

      He lets out a curse and slams the guitar case shut again. A few moments later, he speaks in hushed tones, but not to me.

      “Ty, have you had any, like, weird thoughts since Saturday night?”

      The phone speaker is loud enough—and my cat ears sensitive enough—that I can hear the reply. “What kind of weird thoughts?”

      “I don’t know. Hallucinations?”

      “It was just a little weed. You didn’t even smoke any.”

      “I know, but even secondhand, I definitely felt the effects.”

      “Are you saying you’re seeing things?”

      “Hearing things,” Eli corrects.

      “It was a loud concert. My ears were ringing afterward.”

      “This isn’t a ringing.”

      “What is it?”

      Eli pauses. “Nothing. I guess it is sort of like a ringing. I gotta go. Mom’s calling me for dinner.”

      His mom’s not calling him for dinner, but after hanging up, Eli stalks from the room, shouting her name.

      I hope she has answers.

      * * *

      “So you’re from Cleveland?” Eli has propped me up on his other pillow so that I can see him, but he doesn’t look at me as we talk. He sits against his headboard beside me, arms crossed, legs straight out, looking stunned.

      Not originally, but that was where my essence was encapsulated in this temporary form. The musician who gave me to your father was from there. He was in a band called Raise an Axe. Ever heard of them?

      “No.”

      That’s because they had only one heavy-metal hit in the late eighties, off their self-titled album, Raise an Axe. Can you guess the song name?

      “‘Raise an Axe’?”

      Very good. That singer abandoned his band to embark on a solo career. He also abandoned me. When he realized his mistake, it was too late. I had no luck left for him.

      Eli groans. “This is so bizarre.” He sweeps both palms over his wavy dark hair, holding it back against his scalp. Under all those tumbling locks, he has a pronounced widow’s peak, just like his father. “So who are you?”

      A figment.

      “That’s your name?”

      It’s what I am.

      “Like a figment of my imagination?”

      I