She remembered the first time she successfully hiked on the chair to reach the top of the desk with her mum's pencils and papers scattered all over. The cat had managed to beat her at the destination, in one his feline swoop from the shelf. But he wouldn't get away with it this time. He gloated in the soft afternoon light.
'Go on', he said, 'grab her favourite. I won't touch it.'
She leaned towards a light blue ceramic pen, stained with ink on the collar. As her fingertips reached the coveted tool, he pushed it away from her tiny hand with his paw.
'Why do you always need to do that? It's not like there aren't a million other activities for you. Why do you want to ruin everything for me?'
She felt tears in her eyes. Her mother was a great author, and she was traveling a lot. Martha had always wanted to write stories as well, to make her proud. For as long as she remembered, she had always seen her taking quick notes in a little book that she kept in her pocket at all times. She had sewn these pockets inside every new garment she'd acquired since she was a teenager, to collect her thoughts before they dissolved into the boring yet demanding life around her. Incidentally, the private space had another advantage, which was to keep her wild ideas safe from the rummages of her parents looking for proof that she was again in troubled waters. When she was young, it was not fashionable to be forward-thinking, and her daughter had always been amazed by how fierce her mother was. Marla was convinced that the notebooks were in the locked drawer on the beautiful desk in the study. Unfortunately, she could never find the key, but she did come up with an alternative: she was now convinced that if she used her mother's favorite pen, she too would have the gift of words flowing on paper with grace.
Her plan could have unfolded seamlessly if it wasn't for that stupid cat. He seemed to have made it his life mission to keep her from achieving literary greatness.
The cat purred in satisfaction as she struggled to extend her arm even further to reach the pen. He wasn't particularly mean, although the child would probably disagree with that statement. That spoiled little thing could never understand what he felt like when he saw her wasting her time and resources on this inane quest that she called "writing". She did not want to write, she just wanted to impress her mother. The black Munchkin leaped graciously over the girl onto the floor and started licking its paws. Intrigued by the sudden silence in the room, he interrupted his ritual and gazed at the child.
Her eyes were piercing at him angrily.
She uttered, 'I asked you a question'. A pause. 'Answer me now. Why do you always have to ruin everything for me. Are you as bad as they say, just plotting around all day?'
'No. Humans are not such an interesting thing to torment, you know. Your reactions are too... predictable.'
'What is it then?' She felt so desperate.
'Nothing you would understand. See, all you want to do is shine in your mother's eyes, her friend's, and be the child seen as the next prodigy thanks to a magic pen. Having a famous parent should make things easier for you. But you don't care about writing. If your mother danced, you'd dream of outshining a ballet; if she built castles, you'd be the first to draw the highest tower.'
'So what. I can dream of what I want, she always told me that.'
'Indeed, you can. But just because she told you you could doesn't mean that the rest of us have to help you. When you think of writing, you think of fame... I think of revealing secrets hidden in between hours, telling stories that have no words but can still be heard. I dream of turning white pages into door into world to get lost into.' He licked one of his claw. 'You could do just that, and yet you have no passion. That's why I'm not helping you. You don't deserve it. I do. Yet these paws will never be able to hold a pen. They'll never be able to lay everything I have inside for others to read. They could never...'
Martha sighed loudly and looked straight into the cat's eyes, refraining from rolling her own. She came down from the chair and opened a lower cabinet behind her. She grabbed a heavy typing machine covered in dust and dropped it in a matte sound on the wooden floor.
She glanced back at the cat.
Then the paws.
And the typing machine.
And she finally said, 'can I have the pen now?
