Athanasia

The cat isn't asleep.
Her eyes are closed, sure, and her breath is slow and steady, but every now and then her ear flicks and her nose quivers, chasing a smell.
She's listening.
Obviously, she's not paying attention to any of the people who stop in front of her to pet her head and to coo over the softness of her fur. They are quite repetitive in their praises, and there are much more interesting things to listen to, and not with her ears, not exactly.
After all, she has a job.

In one of the flats in the building across the street, a baby is crying. No one seems to care, and the television is on, loud, in another room.
The cat turns her head slightly, annoyed. She doesn't like children at all: they always have sticky, unpleasantly warm hands that leave her back dirty after they stroke it, and they usually try to wake her up or pull her tail. And they are tremendously noisy.
This particular crying child isn't on the list He gave her, though, not for today – judging by the voice of a woman shouting at him to shut the hell up in an almost incomprehensible, alcoholic slur, he'll probably be in a while anyway. The woman will, too, she can see it, smell it on her, something in her liver that's growing and growing and will one day devour her.

The cat yawns, losing all interest in them. She's a bit bored, to say the truth.
He promised her this would have been, if not fun – after all, there's only a narrow number of activities she finds actually enjoyable anymore –, at least some kind of pastime. But, again, that happened a long time ago.
She blinks slowly, just once, then closes her eyes tightly again.
On the other side of the city there's the hospital. They call it that, hospital, but it's really just a common, large building with grey walls. She doesn't quite understand names, but she knows what is its purpose.
They have humans, in there, trying to heal other humans. She's not interested in them.
Instead, she focuses on a man in a white room, on the second floor. There are bright, bothersome lights and more noise, even there – heavy, uncertain breaths and a loud, rhythmical beep. His heartbeat, she thinks.
It's weak but still steady, and the woman sitting beside the man's bed has red, puffy and yet still hopeful eyes.
Maybe she'll come back tomorrow, or the day after that.

There are others like her, wandering through the green and white corridors – she can sense their presence, like a shadow in the corner of her eye. If she could smile, she would.
He's never been able to do the work all on his own.
Most of them never go searching elsewhere – the hospital is good for them, all things considered. There's always a job to do, and there's company.
She hates talking, and she's too easily bored to stay in one place for too long. They don't mind, and she doesn't mind either.
There must have been an accident, because they're all gathered at the entrance, around the door. They usually roam the building, standing outside the rooms where they know something will happen soon and waiting, like she's doing now.
She keeps walking, searching. There are many doors that seem to call her, but she has a feeling.
She doesn't call it a feeling, of course – words like that are for humans. It's instinct.

She stops on the fourth floor, this time. She heard something, a hushed sobbing or even just a tearful whisper.
They have a list, but there are so many of them – they never know when someone is already taken.
The door's left ajar and, when she peeks inside, she sees a whole family around the bed, and on the bed a teenage girl with wan skin and dark circles under her eyes.
Her mother was the one crying.
If she was someone else, she would probably notice something else about them, but she's herself and to her humans all look the same.
They're so fragile.
She thinks about it, sometimes: they're born, and then they spend a few years eating and sleeping and learning, and then they work, and they marry someone, and they have children – loud, annoying children with their sticky hands – and then they die. Just like that.
They're ephemeral.
She lived through millennia and they have passed for her in the blink of an eye – their cultures and populations, their names, haven't left any memory in her mind.
The cat sits in the doorway, watching the older woman as she tightens her grip on her daughter's hand like she wants to keep the girl from her fate with her willpower only.
Then she walks towards them and she jumps on the bed, near the girl. When her paw brushes against her skin – that pale, cool skin that's definitely less disgusting than the warmth of a child –, the monitor next to the bed goes crazy. They're all screaming, calling someone – a nurse, even if she has no idea what a nurse is. No one can help them, however –, but the girl is with her, now.
She doesn't talk to her, even if she could – they all can, and usually they do. She never does it. She's not even sure she still knows what language these humans speak.
She turns her back to the crying family and the ethereal figure next to them, looking at them, helpless. The girl doesn't try to call her back, and she does nothing to suggest she could.

When she opens her eyes again, she's still in front of the shop. There is no one ready to pet her, no moody child.
There's just Him.
She remembers when He used to wear a long cloak, and He presented Himself like something humans dreaded.
He looks like one of them, now. He wears a refined suit, and His face is the face of what they call a business man, she thinks.
She doesn't really like it, but she still loves Him. Even if she's bored.
And He still loves her, because He loves all of them.
Some say they're His slaves, but they're actually just His friends. His only friends, apart from that woman, the one that wears white, the one who likes babies. She can't remember her name, but, after all, she doesn't remember anyone's name.
So she yawns, and she stretches a little, and then she goes to Him, purring quietly.
He smiles – if she looks carefully, she can still see His old face, underneath this one. She misses it, just a little bit – and He bends down to caress her back.
She lets Him pick her up, and when He does, for just a moment, she can see the whole list.
There are so many names.
She closes her eyes, ignores His hushed reproach, and keeps purring in His arms.
He laughs, and He whispers to her like He did every time He found her lying there, waiting.
«You're always the same, Athanasia.» He says, and she flicks her ear again at her name.
She doesn't like it any more than she likes every other name, and He knows it.
He laughs again, and He sits in front of the shop without making her move from His lap.
His hands are cold – just the right kind of cold.

She's asleep in a matter of minutes.