The Nine Lives of Felicia Miller

by Joe Augustyn

  Ruta pulled a faux leopard skin coat from a rack and held it up to Felicia.

  “This is so you, kittykat.”

  She helped Felicia slip into it, then spun her around and took hold of the collar with both hands. “I’ll miss you. Stay as sweet as you are.”

  The shopkeeper grimaced as Ruta kissed Felicia on the lips.

  “And always listen to Granny. She’s a very wise old dear.”

  115

  The Nine Lives of Felicia Miller

  22

  “Felis silvestris grampia.”

  Felicia spent a full hour researching species of small wildcats before settling on the nearly extinct Scottish wildcat. The European, Asian and African subspecies might have been bigger, more powerful hunters, but based on the pictures she found online, the Scottish “Highland Tiger” cat had the most distinguished coloration. Most of the smaller wildcats bore a close resemblance to domestic cats, particularly in their coloring and facial features. Felicia knew that would complicate her efforts to transition up to a new, more formidable feline.

  The differences in coloration between the Scottish wildcat and the Maine Coon were subtle, to say the least. Would the fine black lining and rusty brown crosspatch on the nose of the wildcat be enough to spark her graduation to the next highest class of feline?

  Don’t worry about it, she told herself. Ruta said intention and will power count. Just concentrate and imagine yourself as a wildcat.

  As the sun went down she got her answer. Her transformation was much easier now than it had been the first few times. She knew it helped to strip down naked first, to keep focused on her reflection in the mirror, and to position herself in a way to accommodate the logistics of the shift without complications. By now she was used to the throbbing contractions of her muscles.

  She rested a minute on the floor then leaped onto the vanity to check herself out in the mirror. Her image surprised her, and actually frightened her for a moment, until she realized she was staring at herself.

  Aside from a body that was half again the size of a domestic cat, the most striking difference lay in her eyes. The aqua blue irises were as pretty as any cat’s eyes could be.

  But above them was a menacing crease in her brow. A display of feral attitude that was evident at first glance.

  As she admired her new incarnation she felt the untamed wildness of nature flowing through her core.

  An eagerness to roam and hunt.

  To exercise her teeth and claws.

  An eagerness to kill.

  ***

  Oogie wrapped both hands around the inch-thick base of the plant’s woody stem and pulled with all his might. He grunted and strained and repositioned his feet to try again. The roots of the plant finally lost their tenacious grip on the soil and Oogie tumbled backwards.

  The musky perfume of marijuana resin filled the air, mingled with the piney scents of the forest. Oogie lifted the plant high, admiring the fat indica buds thick with sticky resin. Even in the gloom of the woods he could see the tiny white crystals that gave the weed its heavyweight punch, glistening like fairy sparkles in the night.

  Nice.

  He pressed a bud to his nose and sucked in a lungful of the heady fragrance.

  Best harvest yet. I’m set for a whole ‘nother year.

  Oogie was quite proud of his pot growing skills. It was the one thing he was good at, and he often fantasized about the day when marijuana would finally be legal and he’d morph overnight from a renegade outlaw into a prosperous law-abiding tax-paying farmer. Well, mostly law-abiding. Some of his favorite activities would never ever be legalized.

  A twig snapped in the woods nearby. Oogie froze in place and looked around, eyes and ears peeled for signs that someone had followed him to his secret garden. He remained still for a good long minute, weighing his options and how to react if he found one of his buddies snooping around.

  They knew he had a secret pot patch, because he shared a big portion of his stash with them each and every year and they knew he never paid a cent for it. But if one of them wasn’t satisfied with his rationed sharing, and was looking to rip him off for more, he’d have to act accordingly. They’d find out he could be as vindictive as he was generous.

  And God help any stranger he caught sniffing around. The switchblade in his pocket would cut through flesh and puncture vital organs as easily as it trimmed the sinewy branches of his plants. He’d searched long and hard to find a suitably lit yet secluded spot for his ganja garden, and wouldn’t give it up without a fight.

  Then there was the possibility that the snoop might be a snitch for Johnny Law. Whatever the case might be, they’d be sorry if Oogie laid hands on them.

  But nothing moved in the woods around him. In fact it was eerily quiet. Spookily quiet. A quiet that sent shivers up Oogie’s spine. No chirping of birds, enjoying their evening meal of grubs and worms. Not even the rustling of squirrels in the autumn trees.

  After a minute of listening to the unmitigated silence, Oogie shrugged and returned to the task at hand. Taking care not to damage the precious buds or handle them directly, he methodically bent the main stem of the plant, folding it over and over into a tidy bundle.

  He paused to take a breath, and was a little unnerved to find that the woods were still deathly quiet. Way too quiet, even for this time of year.

  He thought of Devil’s Point, and of old Granny Dola, and the stories of spook lights and poisonous snakes and other evils lurking in these woods.

  I shoulda cut school and harvested this sucker in the daylight. But then there wouldn’t be as much resin in the buds. It’s better after a full day in the sun. Less dampness in the leaves. Maybe a bit more harsh, yeah, but that’s the way everyone likes it. If they ain’t coughin’ out their guts they think it’s some kind of gyp.

  He stuffed the compacted plant into doubled plastic supermarket bags and tied the handles tight. Normally he’d have clipped off the larger branches first and stored them directly in a paper bag to dry, but this was the last plant of his annual harvest, and it was cold as Granny Dola’s teats in the woods. He just wanted to get the plant home where he could manicure it in the leisurely comfort of his nice warm bedroom.

  His only problem now would be sneaking it in past his mom. She’s probably flopped on the sofa watching some stupid reality show.

  Hopefully she’ll be fucked half out of her brain on her prescription meds like half the stupid cunts in the country.

  He looped the handles of the bulging plastic bundle over the apehanger handlebars of his vintage Schwinn Stingray bike. Switching on its headlamp to light his way, he wheeled it slowly through the woods. Lifting it over rotting logs and rocks and a clump of nettles, he finally reached the dirt trail that led to the nearest paved road.

  As he climbed onto the banana seat, something moved in the woods behind him, softly crunching leaves underfoot.

  Oogie felt an odd chill in his veins. A primal chill. Shrugging off a shiver, he started pedaling down the narrow trail.

  Not normally one to be spooked by intangible threats, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being followed. He found himself pedaling harder and harder, ducking low-hanging branches, brushing past sticky shrubs, spurred on by a growing sense of urgency. But the carpet of slippery leaves and pine needles offered little traction to tires designed for smooth city streets, and he felt like he was churning through a muddy, slow motion dream.

  Damn, it’s fuckin’ cold tonight. I’ll be happy to get my ass home. But even as the thought formed in his mind he knew he was trying to fool himself. It wasn’t the cold air that was bothering him. Something in him, some normally dormant mechanism of survival, was urging him to flee the woods.

  He was seriously frightened.

  Suddenly he found out why. Without warning his head snapped backwards, slammed hard by something so big and heavy it nearly broke his neck.

  And instantly it was attached to his face, a clinging whirlwind of fur and claws, sc
ratching and tearing and biting his scalp and cheeks. Circling his head like a self-propelled buzz saw.

  Stiletto sharp teeth and talons punctured his skin. Deep throaty growls and deafening snarls scorched his ears, a tapestry of sonic fury that merged with his own garbled cries into a paralyzing dirge of death.

  Oogie’s heart almost exploded with fear as his bike toppled over and his head hit the cold hard ground. But whatever had attacked him was gone before he landed.

  “Oooooh… what the hell…?”

  Rolling into a sitting position Oogie ran a hand over his face. It came away coated with blood. He could feel its wetness and smell its coppery odor more than he could see it in the dark embrace of the woods, but the hot throbbing pain spreading over his face like a burning mask assured him he was verily fucked up.

  He didn’t exactly feel like jumping up and running but something inside of him screamed Get the hell out of here now! Now, you idiot!

  “Jesus help me,” he muttered, his heart starting to quiver like a bowl of yellow jello. Tottering on shaky legs he found his bicycle and set it upright. His hands were trembling uncontrollably and his head felt light from loss of blood.

  Rather than mounting the bike he picked it up by its purple metal-flake frame and started to jog down the path, figuring he could make better time on foot until he reached the asphalt road leading to town.

  His face felt like fire and ice; skewered by hot knives and icicles. Cold drops of blood dripped past his eyes from his forehead.

  Gotta make the road. Just gotta make the fucking—

  Suddenly it was back, blasting onto his head with a heartstopping snarl. Claws like bayonets tore into his cheeks and scalp, punching through flesh to the bone.

  Oogie threw his bike down and reached up to pull the savage thing off, but his trembling fingers slipped on its blood-soaked fur and he couldn’t get a grip on the wriggling creature.

  Remembering the switchblade in his pocket he reached for it but his panicked fingers couldn’t find the slit of his jacket pocket. Finally his hand fumbled through the opening and frantically yanked the knife from his pocket. But when he pushed the button the force of the switchblade springing open made it jump from his blood-slicked fingers.

  He dropped to his knees and reached up again, trying to pull the animal off his head. But it kicked at his hands and wrists, scoring his tendons with its razor-sharp claws. He realized it was hopeless and resumed his efforts to find the fallen knife, groping blindly on the forest floor. But his wildly searching fingers hit the knife, knocking it further out of reach.

  He tried punching at the animal but his fists just drove its claws deeper, or glanced off its bloody pelt.

  The pain he felt was overwhelming. Warm blood drenched his collar, cooling quickly as it soaked down into his shirt. Strips of loose flesh fluttered like dime store banners from his forehead and cheeks. One of his ears dangled free, hanging upside down and inside out by a bloody sliver of skin. A cool gust of wind chilled the exposed bone of his skull.

  Then worst of all he felt the long hard claws of the beast dig into his tightly closed eyelids. They felt like sharp squat roofing nails being forced into his eyes.

  With a pain he’d never imagined possible his eyeballs exploded. Hot goo trickled down his ravaged face.

  And suddenly the animal was gone, leaving him alone, blinded and bleeding and helpless in the woods. He sank forward clawing at the cold wet soil.

  In blind desperation he dragged himself across the ground, writhing like a snake with a broken back. His voice was an incoherent wail, echoing through the woods like a chorus of half-mad ghosts.

  His knees slipped on damp leaves in blazing autumn colors he’d never ever set eyes on again.

  His hands found the cold steel frame of the cherished bicycle he’d never be able to ride again.

  A quarter mile away, a burly Scottish wildcat hurdled a fallen tree and bounded away through the woods. Adrenalin pumped through its system. The dramatic striped pattern of its fur was barely recognizable, covered head to toe in fresh red blood.

  Reaching the center of Devil’s Point it hopped onto a boulder and paused to rest and clean itself up. Licking its soggy fur. Savoring the fresh sharp taste of blood.

  Delicious blood. Human blood.

  Mmm… yes… I could get used to this.

  Felicia licked for nearly half an hour before she felt clean enough to stop. She sat on the rock for several more minutes, gazing up at the crescent moon. It smiled down at her. Smiling like the Cheshire cat.

  Two down, Felicia thought happily.

  Two down and three to go.

  115

  The Nine Lives of Felicia Miller

  23

  After just a few hours sleep, Felicia woke feeling strangely refreshed. She was pleasantly surprised to find herself so relaxed and full of energy. She wasn’t a morning person under any normal circumstance, and had expected her nocturnal forays to be exhausting.

  Instead she was up and rarin’ to go, as her father liked to say.

  Don’t question it, she told herself. Just go with the flow, girl. There’s nothing bad about feeling good.

  She lingered in bed for a moment, replaying the previous night in her head.

  After dispatching Oogie she’d spent a few hours prowling the woods, exhilarated by her act of revenge. Too pumped to simply go home and lurk in her bedroom ‘til dawn, she headed into town.

  She wandered through side streets and backyards, taking mental note of barking dogs who warned of her predatory presence… security lights triggered by motion detectors… and other possible dangers to avoid on her subsequent late night forays.

  She made it home before dawn, hopped through her open bedroom window and took a catnap on her vanity. Her alarm clock, set before she started her evening adventure, woke her with minutes to spare before sunrise.

  She gazed at her cat face in the mirror then leapt to the floor as the sun rose and her muscles started twitching and her transformation back to human form began. Relieved that her adventure had ended without a hitch, she calmly reset the alarm clock, climbed into bed and fell fast asleep. When it buzzed an hour later she woke feeling refreshed.

  But she was shocked when she glanced in the mirror and saw her face covered with patches of dried brown blood. Oogie’s filthy blood.

  Quickly she crept to the bathroom and closed the door, just in time before she heard her parents’ bedroom door open and her mother’s footsteps patter down the hall.

  Her mother was surprised to find the bathroom door locked. Usually she had to drag Felicia out of bed in the morning for school. “Felicia? Are you up already?”

  “I’ll be out in a minute, mom.”

  Felicia scrubbed herself thoroughly in the shower, then returned to her room.

  She shimmied into her tightest pants and a thrift shop spandex top decorated with a rhinestone cat face. It was kitschy enough to be borderline tacky but she no longer gave a damn what her classmates thought of her, and was amused at the prospect of making a bold-faced yet secretive statement about her alter identity.

  And if by some fluke someone has already discovered the fate of Oogie it’ll be especially sweet. They’ll have to know by his condition that it was a cat that did him in.

  She thought of him lying in the woods where she’d left him, bloody and helpless. She knew he was horribly blinded. The memory of digging into his eyeballs with her thick, power-packed claws was still fresh in her mind. It sent a shiver up her spine.

  A fiendishly happy shiver.

  She imagined the terrible horror he must have felt. Pain was one thing. She’d made sure he’d had plenty of that. But the real horror was knowing that the world as he knew it was over. Finito. Gone. Permanently stolen away. Just as hers had been.

  She felt no pity for Oogie. She felt nothing other than satisfaction. He was a closed chapter in her life. A despicable bastard the world would be better off without. And if by some chance he did manage to sur
vive, he’d never abuse another girl as long as he lived. If he manages to survive.

  She looked at herself in the mirror. The nerdy girl she’d been just a few weeks ago didn’t look back at her. Instead she saw a sleek, sexy young woman brimming with confidence and vitality.

  She hissed at herself playfully in the mirror then headed downstairs to breakfast. Ready to greet the day. Ready to plan her next mission.

  115

  The Nine Lives of Felicia Miller

  24

  “Felicia! Hey, girl. I haven’t s-seen you lately. Not s-since…” Crystal stuttered, “S-since you s-started hang-ging out with R-ruta.”

  Felicia slowed her gait, allowing Crystal to catch up to her. The buzz in the school hallway was no different than any other day. Apparently Oogie was still in the woods, undiscovered.

  “I w-wanted t-to th-thank you,” Crystal continued. “For what you d-did in the c-cafeteria.”

  “Forget it,” Felicia replied, without looking at her. Forget it, you little chicken-shit, who didn’t even have the balls to help me when I ran into the woods. Who didn’t even have the courage to report what you knew was a dangerous situation to an adult. “It was nothing,” she continued, then turned and looked Crystal dead in the eye. “Nothing any friend wouldn’t do for another.”

  Crystal swallowed a lump of humility that stuck like a peach stone in her throat.

  “W-wanna go g-grab a c-coke?” she finally blurted, “M-my treat.”

  “Thanks, but it’s my turn to feed Mrs. Cuddles,” Felicia said coolly. Without another word, she turned and headed for the biology lab. Let the little twerp stew.

  Crystal stood watching her walk away, regretful and insecure. Wondering if her friend would ever forgive her.

  Suddenly someone slapped her right buttock and jiggled it playfully. Startled by the rude surprise she turned and caught Wally whipping his hand away, with a shit-eating grin on his face. A grin that said, I know you’d never dare report me.