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Cecil rests his weight against the counter.
It’s the paws. He can’t seem to look away.
His fingers brush tentatively against the small foot-pads. Piddle-paws, his brain supplies, nonsensically; he feels the phrase knocking through his mind. His thumb presses to a central pad, stroking lightly toward the toes. The skin is still warm. Warm and pink.
The veterinarian has already confirmed, low-voiced and careful, her hands twisting the stethoscope. Cecil does not disbelieve her. He just needs to be sure through his own perception, to line it up with his own experience; he does not want to walk away without achieving sensory certainty. He touches again at the little paw. Still warm. Still pink. Still Khoshekh, a bundle of fluff, claws, and spine ridges, sprawled out atop a faded blue blanket.
Kit-cat, says his brain. Kitten-mittens. My boy.
Cecil strokes the cat’s side, the soft spot at the back of his head. He touches the tufted tip of his ear, then runs a forefinger down the bridge of his nose. Khoshekh still does not respond, his eyes open and absent, each iris a starburst of distinct, vibrant color. His claws are ever-so-slightly extended.
Cecil drops his forehead to his palm, his other hand spread over Khoshekh’s fur. Stroking, because it’s a comforting habit.
When he touches again at the pad of a paw, there’s a faint loss of heat, just enough to notice. Cecil’s eyes feel swollen and scratchy, as though he’s been peering through chlorine water. He circles his thumb, nerve endings attuned, searching out further temperature changes.
Silence hangs in the room like a heavy fog, cold and oppressive, morning-dark. Cecil feels the absence of his own voice, and yet more keenly, of a deep, quiet purr. There’s a distinct change in color now, a ruddy tinge to once-pale pink, a deepening shift toward almost-purple. Lividity, supplies some part of his brain. And then, like a traitorous echo, piddle-paws.
Cecil pulls his hand back to remove his glasses, swiping his eyes with his opposite wrist. He’s passed, is what the vet had murmured as the tech discreetly disposed of the needle. Take as long as you need, as they slipped out the door. There’s a clock on the wall, but Cecil can’t comprehend it, and it’s nothing to do with anomalies in Night Vale. He can’t even comprehend his own watch; the numbers slip straight through his mind like water.
The little room smells like plastic and disinfectant, with an underlying scent of animal fur.
He returns his hand to Khoshekh’s side, struck anew by the cat’s utter lack of reaction. The pads of the paws are decidedly cooled, decidedly darkened by still, settling blood. Cecil knows, as he already knew. Cecil drops into the lone chair in the corner, drops his head into his hands, and cries into the silence.
He has no idea how long he sits there. He hears and ignores the click of the door, the various sounds drifting out of the waiting room. He even ignores the buzz of his phone, because he cannot handle Carlos’ sympathy and there’s nobody else he’s willing to speak to. At some point, he’s due to show up at work, but the thought barely registers before slipping away.
Cecil rises, many phone-buzzes later. He touches two fingers to Khoshekh’s head.
“I’m sorry,” says Cecil. “I am so very sorry. I love you, little guy. I hope you’re at peace.”
For another long moment, Cecil hesitates, then he shudders a breath and slips out the door. Behind him, Khoshekh remains on the blanket, a fixed point on the table beneath the bright lights.