Interestingly enough, though it wasn't the original intent behind his name, Kattar's name sounding so much like "cat" has been and is being used constantly throughout the story to represent him as a cat - and may or may not be the reason behind his obsession with playing with string (cough cough Alicia's sash.)
Getting down on the floor like a man-sized breed of black cat he crawled over to where I stared zombie-fied at the small screen and laid down so close to me that our shoulders touched.
Too lazy to pull out the brushes and water, I force the acrylics from their tubes and dip my fingers into the primaries without blending, without proper preparations - I poke my fury into the face of the empty white and streak and smear my fingerprints across the blank space in an ugly puke-ish hurricane of color.
Lines become scalloped rainbow waves in the blurry blue-yellow tempest. I paint a red mouth with a tainted, toothy grin where the canines glow yellow, like a lion-ish clown. The eyes stare out at me blankly, and I know they should be fire, bitter with passion, and judgment, judging me.
Blue streaks become feathers and the feathers smear blue with red into lavender-violet at the ends, a yellow cat face, ruddy with muddy red patching its visage like graffiti, or paint swatches of the most basic shades - brilliantly commonplace, and not special. Not special at all.
The lion with its feathered mane stares me down with that same expression that haunts me, and the voice, says dryly, “Fair enough.”
Kattar wheels himself into the dining room as I pull out the peanut butter and jelly. The ‘help’ has kept his pantries well stocked, though it’s questionable how much cooking he’s been able to manage from the weird angle he’s trapped at, in his chair.
I figure I’ll do the dishes too, since the cleaners won’t be back until tomorrow.
I hand him the plate and I start to turn back toward the kitchen, but hear him laugh-
“What? You didn’t trim the crusts off! The service at this place is terrible!”
I decide to ignore him, rolling my eyes and heading back to the kitchen, but with a “Hey-” he reaches out and tries to snag me by the sash, which comes undone, and slides unceremoniously to the floor.
I turn beet-red, crouching quickly to retrieve the sash from the carpet, avoiding his face as his gaze burns into the top of my head.
“Getting into the Christmas spirit?” He laughs as I retie the sash aggressively, burning with embarrassment and frustration simultaneously.
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“You look like a Christmas present all tied up with a bow,” he jokes, smiling up to his eyes, glowing with enjoyment. I turn redder still.