Glutton

In the outskirts of a small town in Wyoming, it’d always been so quiet, so peaceful. The wind’s cool breeze spoke of isolation, the perfect word to describe the Murphy household with one, and only one, resident to speak of while nobody else cared to and never will. In the end, it was only and always will be Tom Murphy.

Tom Murphy had been sitting at the living room computer for a week straight now in the mountainous heaps of trash, scraps of discarded food, some scavenging, freeloading, yet far more productive insects here and there, and whatever kind of allegorical metaphor that could be taken from the concept of Language itself only to be mocked for the fact it’s being used to describe the quintessential, go-to idea any sane, self-respecting human being would have when they hear the word, ‘Hoarder’.

Yes, Tom’s a hoarder and no, he did not care.

There’s the saying, “Your house reflects your state of mind” for a reason, similar to “Cleanliness is next to Godliness”.

To be clear: Any aspiring psychoanalyst with a smidgen of coat-tail riding on a licensed professional in the Psychology field would have the most obvious answer that would come in the form of a New York’s ‘Best Seller’ novel to help other aspiring psychologists. (Funnily enough, that same aspiring psychoanalyst would be recognized by the professional and would be taken in as a pupil.)

And, to be clear on the whole, “Cleanliness is next to Godliness”? There is no God in that house and this wasn’t even speaking on the hoarding aspect. No. That was the final nail in Tom's coffin and the hammer was held by his mother and the coffin was made by the trauma in the Murphy Family Tree. Just speaking about the parents opened a can of worms, it’s that kind of ‘we don’t talk about it’ thing all families have and the Murphy Bloodline might as well be related to a bastard son of the Bubonic Plague and the Spanish Flu with that annoying cousin at every family gathering being AIDS.

Tom killed off his warm, flat Shasta can and, since there was no room to put it aside or put it in the garbage, he decided to shrug and chucked the damn thing in that god-forsaken void of ammonia-ridden shit.

He was about to grab another can, but he stopped in his hand when he heard something, clear as day.

It came from…the basement?

The…basement?

Odd. Tom could’ve sworn his cats were asleep at this time of day. He had about ten cats and about eight of them were strays that wandered in and stayed since he fed them. What could they be doing to make noise like that?

Tom, curious, slowly stood as much as his four hundred pound frame could really handle (Oh yeah, all that bulking in high school football really paid off. Go Pokes.)

Miraculously, he got to the basement door and it was just across the front door anyway-it was that kind of ‘three-way split path’, so it wasn’t a problem.

Opening the basement door and slowly descending the three steps, he froze when he looked up to see a decomposed cat sitting with its exposed, dried, and broken ribcage. It didn’t look bloody, but it certainly looked…wrong.

It shouldn’t be there and it was right there anyway.

Tom shook his head, blinked, and steeled off the nerve, then spoke, “Debbie?”

Debbie.

Wait…

Another box shuffled and it was…Clyde. His eye was missing and his unkept, aged fur really did look like it came to life after so many days. Or was it years? Maybe a decade?

Either way, Tom was taken aback again, he said Clyde’s name, his eyes welling, and he took a step back only to stumble and slam on the dusty pavement.

Tom tried to move, then winced. He looked down and his ankle gave up on holding that kind of weight so suddenly, so it broke, splintered bone stuck out from beneath the thick tree husk that was his leg.

He cried out for help as he tried to crawl for the stairs failing miserably to move whatsoever.

Nobody heard him.

Tom’s peripheral vision caught something in the corner of his eye, he looked, and there were more. Tom tried to count, but the brief moment he did count completely rocked him.

There had to have been more than seventy cats in this basement and they were already on him.

He tried to push them off, but the ones he did push away only allowed about ten more decrypted cats to get closer.

He could smell them and, for once, he heaved, he coughed, and choked on the heaves and coughs.

Then one of them began to crawl inside his mouth, he could taste the dandruff in the fur and it didn’t make him puke somehow and this cat was going to make its way inside, one way or another.

When the cat was inside past his throat and the others began to crawl inside his mouth, he could feel life itself fade away into darkness and his chokes and convulsions and drivelling foam was null and void. He died in the process and the cats burrowed their way, nested, cuddled up, and finally found their peace.

Tom never did and, God bless him, he’s going to speak to his mother wherever he finds her. Knowing her, she was at some back-end bar with a nice, cold glass bottle of Coors Lite and whatever she orders at the bar will always be on the house.

Despite that, Tom wanted to smile at the last dying thought of him and his mother sitting at the bar that might as well be their fire and they were the travelers of failed hopes and short-lived glories that they lamented on because it was the only accomplishment that brought any semblance of joy.

As Tom laid there and despite his passing, the house felt different as the several months passed. His body broke down to the point of complete bone disintegration. It’s bonedust and it was all that remained of him. The cats finally gave up their mortal shells and they all turned to dust like him.

The Murphy Bloodline died long ago, but Tom’s legacy was doomed from the start with no jump to get after improvement, no initiative to take action, and no real care to seek help from his nonexistent friend group.

In the outskirts of a small town in Wyoming, it’d always been so quiet, so peaceful. The wind’s cool breeze spoke of isolation, the perfect word to describe the Murphy household with one, and only one, resident to speak of while nobody else cared to and never will. In the end, it was only and always will be Tom Murphy.