Prompt : You are a loser who lives alone with a cat and have for quite some time. One day your cat can’t take it anymore and starts talking. What does it say?
Prince Archibald McMuffin Plumperdink was sick and tired of living with Millicent Harriet Monroe. Sure, she kept him fed, but that was about the extent of her care for him or for anything else that matter.
Maybe Millie was depressed, maybe something was wrong enough inside to explain why she never bathed, or cleaned, or ate food that didn’t smell like salt and arrived through a crack in the front door. Prince Archibald McMuffin Plumperdink couldn’t diagnose her though, he was just a cat.
He had had twelve long sleeps since the last time she cleaned herself, which was abhorrent to someone as fastidious about hygiene as he. The smell was overwhelming to his sensitive nose; such a foul predicament was not appropriate for a cat of his noble bearing.
After the absence of change on sleep thirteen he had had enough. It was disgusting.
She was on the sofa as she always was, a mangled daze of limbs and blankets in a seat cushion divot worn from months of inaction. It was discolored underneath, he knew. Putrid.
Prince Archibald McMuffin Plumperdink crossed the top gingerly, the only spot anyone might ever describe as clean. Even there a stray wrapper had flung, the casing of chopsticks that were most likely buried now somewhere in the blankets under Millie, stained with sauce and dried rice. He gagged at the very thought.
She was snoring, unladylike in his opinion, though everything about her was the very definition of unladylike. What lady allows mats in her hair? Sees interaction only through a cracked door and fifteen seconds of sheer awkwardness with the delivery driver?
He pawed at her face, claws retracted at first, then half claw, then harder. It wasn’t until the near drawing of blood that she even twitched. She rolled and belched in his delicate face. The urge to wretch intensified.
“MILLIE” he shouted.
That got her.
She bolted upright and nearly knocked him from his perch, legs tangling in her impossible number of blankets and tripped hard to the carton covered floor.
“Oh for Christ’s sake…” Prince Archibald McMuffin Plumperdink jumped to the sticky carpet with noble grace, tenderly picking his way over the trash and dereliction.
“This needs to stop Millie. The way you treat me, the way you treat yourself. It’s unflattering, unbecoming, and frankly quite disgusting. I can not allow this any longer.”
Millie blinked once, twice. Her glasses were somewhere else, somewhere out of reach.
“Get up woman. Bathe yourself. Dispose of your remnants like a proper adult. And while you’re at it my box has become quite unclean… though you’d hardly notice it with all of your own vileness contaminating the air. I am a Prince after all; I can stand for this no more!” He puffed his great fluffy chest, the only thing clean in this cradle of trash.
Millie blinked again, her mouth dry and unwilling to form words.
“I said get up. That is an order. I will not live in this way.“
When she did nothing of the sort within a reasonable moment of he snorted with disgust, and then twice for emphasis.
“Fine, woman. You have left me with no choice. I take my leave.”
He turned in a haughty swish of his great noble tail. The front door was still cracked from the last delivery of dinner, and he gave only the slightest of hesitations before venturing out into the world that must be cleaner than this. Food would more difficult to be sure, but Prince Archibald McMuffin Plumperdink could suffer the tragedy of Millicent Harriet Monroe no longer.