The Journal of Esme: Cat-Killer

Esme will die on the seventh day.

On the first day, she fed her cat with rat poison. She ate dinner with her mother and father and told them she would die by the end of the week. They looked at her for a second and went on eating with silence. Or maybe they were eaten by silence. Esme then read Astrologie + Necromancie of the Ages until she fell asleep.

On the second day, it stormed and Esme went to school wearing a flaming pink tee. In her turn on their activity What I Want to Be When I Grow Up, instead of saying she would like to be a historian of the undead which she previously planned, she said she wants to be able to wear pink when she grows up to at least know what it feels to look like you’re cheery even though she knows for a fact that adulthood equates to gloomy. And since she’d die by the end of the week anyway, she said she tried doing it now even though she does not feel a tad gloomy. After that rather dull affair she went home and fed her cat another spoonful of rat poison.

On the third day, she dropped by on a shop selling coffins looking for a design that would fit her, but since she couldn’t find a coffin made entirely of hair, she decided to try looking on eBay instead, and if still there’s nothing then she’d rather be burned. She then helped a lovely, old couple pick coffins that would suit them. They liked her choice enough to give her an invitation to their eulogy. It was a lovely afternoon.

On the fourth day, her cat was still alive. She decided rat poison doesn’t really work with cats anyway. She went out looking for cat poison but couldn’t find one. People love cats too much, she thought.

On the fifth day, Esme realized she has no shadow. She wondered if it had always been like that. She didn’t pay too much attention to her shadow before so she really couldn’t be sure. This made her feel like she’s starting to fade in this world piece by piece starting with her shadow. Esme looked at her fingers to see if they’re still visible. They were.

On the sixth day, Esme started writing a detailed record of her life on her black book until she could write no more. She lied down on the balcony counting stars until she could sleep. She reached 1, 924 before she did. Then someone came shuffling from the door and found the book lying open by her side. A book, inanimate though it is, will always find its purpose. It was read.

The following morning, lots of cars were parked outside #4 El Dolor Drive. Apparently, Mrs. Hemp decided their chandelier wasn’t good enough and decided to try how her neck would look like hanging instead. It fitted the noose perfectly. That was the end that we knew of Mrs. Hemp. Her husband was a face of total shock. The less kind would call it apathy. Maybe, maybe not. Maybe both.

On that day, Esme could never be found. Until this day she has never been found. Some say she ran away. Some say she was involved with her mother’s death. Some say she ran with a bunch of crack users and is now living in a commune being a vessel of the sperms of at least thirty men. And some would say they really have no idea where Esme is. Nor could they be really bothered to care, but that was off the record.

Still, we all know what happened to Esme on that seventh day.

Don’t we?

Esme, as imagined by friend Louie πŸ˜‰
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