definitely have been enough to dislodge the antique fan from the ceiling. He was a huge cat. A heavy cat who has been desperately trying to get a hold of that chain since the day we brought him home.
Often we would find him standing on his back legs at the end of the bed, reaching as far as his paws would allow, swiping at the low hanging, dangling cord. Just the other day, I told my husband that he was nearly large enough to reach the pull string. My husband said we should probably raise the chain, but we both liked being able to lean across the bed and pull the light switch without getting up when we were ready for bed.
Either Charles Wallace had finally grown enough to reach the pull string and his weight had been enough to pull the fan from its weak brace or the fan had dropped from said brace, was barely holding on, and Charles Wallace had come along and given it the final tug it needed. Or the cat hadn’t had anything to do with it, I’ll never know, but the shifty way he has acted ever since around ceiling fans, I have a suspicion he did something.
Despite all the pain I was in, all the damage I was sure I had received, I walked away with very little wrong. The fan broke my left foot, but that was the extent of any major damage. I was bruised from the knees down. Those bruised seemed to take forever to heal. Other than that, I had a large amount of cuts and scrapes, but nothing that needed anything more than a few stitches. Everything looked and felt worse than it really was, as those things usually went.
In case you were wondering, (most people do not, but I always did) my sisters came in and cleaned the house for me after my accident. They washed the sheets, scrubbed the bloody mattress, threw out the old ceiling fan, and vacuumed. Charles Wallace managed to get up most of the vomit while the house was empty, God love him. He also must have lapped up and wallowed in some of my blood because they said that when they got to my house, he was sprawled out on the living room floor cleaning it off his fur.
My sisters have now decided that he has some serious problems and will no longer play with or pet him. Sometimes at night, I get this strange feeling that he has acquired the taste of my blood and that I am going wake up one morning to him eating my flesh. Especially on those many nights when I wake to find him staring me right in the face with a look in his eye that says, “I know what you taste like, and I like it.”
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Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek at Jennifer Reynolds’ first novel, Alone available in both eBook and paperback.
Alone
Prologue
Charles Wallace's Favorite Toy Page 3
