Cat In Vein



I woke up to find myself lying in the same bathtub, disappointingly alive. The water has already gone down the drain, leaving me sticky with oxidized blood stains all over, like the wooden rod inside a chocolate ice-cream. 

It took me a while to notice my wrist. I was too dizzy. The bleeding had stopped, for the cut had been sewed——perfunctorily, with the brightest pink thread one can ever find. 


I live alone. Someone must intruded my house during my suicide process to do all that. 

In thoughts of self-defense, I jumped out of the bathtub in my birthday suit, almost tripped while trying to reach the knife I used to cut my wrist one hour ago, which, I remembered, was left on the sink. 

But the knife wasn’t there. It was replaced by a cat covered in glutinous dark red stains which smelled like blood.

The cat stared at me. I stared back.

The cat talked. ‘For your own sake, man, put on some clothes. You look like you just raped and murdered a five-year-old and ate his body raw.’ It said.


When I finally got out of my bathroom (clean and dressed and depressed), the cat was already waiting on my couch, with a proud look and a tea set by its side, completely reversing the roles of guest and host. I didn't even know I own a tea set. 

I wanted to say something. The cat shushed me with its paw.

‘Yes, it was me who sewed the cut on your wrist. But please sit down and listen for now,’ it said, ‘for we are in a serious situation.’

For no reason (all those dizziness I got from the loss of blood stopped me from wondering about why on earth would a cat talk or serve tea or sew someone’s bleeding wrist), I gave it a solemn look which it wanted, and it continued.

‘I’ve been living in your vein all these years. Your artery, to be specific. I flow with your blood——that’s where my home is. But today I was pushed out of my chair when having afternoon tea and flushed all the way here. Before I could react to the situation, I have already become homeless. ’ 

I had no idea what it was talking about. And it kept talking. 

‘Don’t act that surprised. Look, man, there has surely been no renting contract between us, but it’s still kind of cruel of you to force me out of my house like this.’ 

I sat silently. The cat sipped its tea before continuing its story.

‘In case you wonder, I’m no monster in poorly written children’s literature, neither am I a parasite. I don’t make messes, I’m not a dog. We cats seek nothing but warmth and good Netflix Series. I spent my peaceful life through watching cartoons and eating carbohydrate, but it all ended today. You kicked me out with the most unreasonable behavior in the seven kingdoms, and now I’ll have to find my place in a pet store til someone else introduces me to his mundane life. I’ll have to bear his shit till he bleeds, only to get into another good vein. And this is all your fault——I don’t even care about your reasons behind all this sick fuck.’

It gave me a brutal look after this series of accusation. I didn't even know where to start. 

I slit my wrist to avoid feeling guilty in the first place. 

But I still apologized. I never thought my vein offers warmth or Netflix, I said. I never linked anything in my life with that kind of good things.

‘That’s what you don’t know, you ignorant brat.’ The cat answered. 

Seems like it had forgiven me.


The cat was going to stay in my apartment till I found it another landlord. This was the compensation we agreed on. 

‘Why can’t you just get back into my veins though?’ I waved my arm at it while it was watching My Little Pony on my sofa. 

‘I don’t know the exact reason,’ it said, chewing popcorns, ‘something within the blood I guess. Something decisive flown away like migrating birds when people cut their wrists open. They become ships without anchors afterward.’

I laughed.

‘You’ll make a good christian in the 12th century.’ I said. ‘But I was incomplete before committing suicide. I merely did that to turn things around.’

‘I’m afraid it is not like that.’It answered with a soft, pitiful voice.

We sat in silence.

‘Besides, you’re gonna slit your wrist again after all this, aren’t you?’ said the cat.

‘True.’ I answered.


I called Murphy out for lunch. We never liked each other back in high school.

I kept the cat in my backpack with me.

I forgot about how our conversation went, but it certainly went the way I expected it to. Forty minutes later we were in the alley out the back door of the restaurant, with both of Murphy’s two hands stroking on my neck, my back hitting hard on the wall. What’s next was pretty predictable——he hit me with a jab, I returned a hook, etc. We fought.

The last thing I remember before I lost consciousness was Murphy’s nose. It was bleeding like the Red Sea. The Red Sea isn’t really red, but Murphy’s blood sure was.

I was in no state better than him. I blacked out completely.

When I woke up, both Murphy and the cat were nowhere to be seen. The cat must have already moved into his new house through the wounds on Murphy’s nose now, I thought with relief. 

Now I owe that cat nothing.

I never succeeded in killing myself afterward.

The last time I tried to do it, I filled the bathtub with lukewarm water again, which I used to stimulate the circulation of blood to make them drain out of my body faster. I would lie down in the water, lining up knives and bottles of Stilnox (sleeping pills) on the edge of the bathtub. Then I cry and laugh and cry like cult believers on a ritual.

But I never truly did it. Looking at the scar on my wrist, I trembled so hard the water spilled out like a sea undergoing a storm. 

I got out of the water and crashed beside the toilet, puking like a broken sewer.

I simply couldn't lie to myself anymore. The scar on my wrist stood like a stele of truth.

There were no pink threads on it, because I handled the cut myself, using band-aids.

There was never a cat in my bloodstreams, which came out angrily and ate all my popcorns.

But there was Murphy, who was my best friend back in high school, a real nice guy who watched My Little Pony (through at the age of 17). We used to share the same Netflix account. 

‘What you’ve been doing to yourself is all in vain.’ That’s what he said during our last reunion, when he saw the injury on my wrist. ‘The exit is not that on that direction, and you know that deep down. You just tend to believe in easy explanations, like ‘something decisive in me just flew away like migrating birds’, blahblahblah , so you can let your life go easily without feeling guilty about it.’

‘But your problems will not be fixed with a slip on your wrist. Grow up.’ He said.

In fury and embarrassment, I hit his nose.

I was lying on the cold bathroom floor, beside the toilet with vomitus in it as these memories coming back to me. Yet I am laughing like a madman, only in relieved.

‘I am not a ship without an anchor.’ I whispered to myself and the cat that I imagined.

It never left my vein after all.

I never tried killing myself again.