MiloMilo kept to himself. On a spring afternoon, or beneath a dreary sky, Milo wanted to be alone. He had wanted that since his first recollection of wanting. His mother would remark on the jovial boys and girls playing with total abandon in the cul-de-sac. Oh, Jimmy has an electric Jeep. I bet he would let you ride in it! She would hyperbolically exclaim along with other banal observations that invariably left Milo shrugging with indifference. The boy was homeschooled, scheduled no play dates, had no visits from extended family (his father left before he was born), and never left their home. She did her best to keep him happy, and to her credit, Milo always regarded his upbringing as a pleasant one. There wasn’t much to be had, but he received the little he asked for. Unlike most kids, young Milo didn’t veer from one interest to the next. He possessed a singular infatuation that brought him more elation than anything else, stuffed animals. They were wonderful toys endowed with supernatural gifts within their cotton and fabric. The range of styles, creatures, sizes, and every other iteration brought with it a nuance of magic. Milo adored stuffed animals. His grandfather gifted him his first. It was a large tiger. Milo never remembered his reactions to the tiger, but even if his mom hadn’t relayed his immediate love, he sensed it rooted deeply within his being. From those days in infancy and into his adolescence, Milo only wanted stuffed animals, nothing else, no one else. Milo could share his views, create origins, and journey with these inanimate dolls. Their conversations were where Milo felt free to be himself, and in that freedom, there was unaccustomed harmony, an escape from the horrors ever lurking in Milo’s head. Imaginary friends are common and passing for children, but with no physical friends to usurp them, they became permanent fixtures. Milo preferred it that way. Into adulthood, Milo’s sentiment never changed. He remained in his childhood home alone since his mother joined a retirement facility. The three-bedroom was nearly empty and remote from the outside due to a brick wall enclosing the property and blinds shielding every window except the one above the kitchen sink. There were pieces of furniture sporadically placed throughout the house. They were afterthoughts that served little purpose beyond another housing place for the stuffed animals. Stuffed animals dominated the space. A lifetime collection acquired by gift, trade, and online order occupied every inch of nearly every room. The tiger was the first, but his collection transformed into a menagerie of animals, characters, and creatures. Milo last counted the lot at 8,312. He didn’t purchase many more after that, strictly due to a lack of capacity. The 8,312 were each special, each a friend. Their names were written on their stock tags in black letters, but that was more for decorum because Milo memorized their names. There were no repeats. After Milo exhausted the typical names, like Stripes for his original tiger, any name would suffice if it was unique to the doll, each was special, each was a friend. It was only logical that different personalities required different names. Milo’s existence stayed the same until he turned 25. That birthday was typically regarded as significant, but for Milo it was another birthday where he celebrated like he always had, with a carrot cake and a friend ordered for the occasion. However, the day after felt strange. It was exciting, but to an unnerving point. Milo didn’t know what it meant. He was accustomed to routine, so change was an unwelcome sensation. There was a torrent of thoughts swirling in his head. What if I need to pay some tax? What vitamins should I take? How often does one need to change batteries in a fire alarm? If there is a fire, could I run out in time? How many sex offenders live in the cul-de-sac? What is the assault rate in this neighborhood? What if people think I’m an outsider and call the police on me? How would I call a lawyer? And on the non-sequitur questions and concerns raged. The internal integration led to one end, Milo’s dread towards change. Tranquility was confined to his walls, his habits. The usual remedy was to grab the nearest friend and shower him or her with pets and gentle coos. Milo knew just the one, Frankie, an oversized teddy bear that filled with goose down making him the ideal cuddle partner. Frankie was in his usual location, lodged between Theo and Maverick, fellow teddies, on the couch. They were brothers and needed to be within contact of each other for their sense of security. Milo lifted Frankie up and enveloped him. The plush was comforting, at least for a moment. The more Milo held on and uttered a hushed you’re the best, the more a sentiment was rising in Milo’s heart. It was a feeling of apathy. Apathy was the furthest feeling he held for his furry friends, and yet there it was, inescapable, undeniable. Milo thrust Frankie in front of him and gazed panicked stricken into his plastic bead eyes. Frankie could tell, Milo was sure, yes, Frankie could tell. Although the glossy beads were inanimate, they teemed with disappointment. Milo gripped his beloved bear tighter, whimpering I’m sorry repeatedly until the words dissipated into nothingness. Frankie appeared relieved, but a distinct shine across his beaded eyes conveyed his skepticism. Frankie, and perhaps the others, noticed a difference in Milo. The soft bear whispered a menacing phrase Milo couldn’t make out. Milo wasn’t appeased, a first. He put Frankie down and nervously shuffled into his kitchen, the room that was the easiest to hide from the suspicious looks. The kitchen was sheerly pragmatic: single-sized fridge, sink, table, and lone chair. It was the sole room that was only occupied by Milo. After some pacing, Milo decided to do the dishes. Get my mind off things, just clean. There were two plates and a couple of utensils that were soiled, but Milo took his time. The distraction worked, that was until, something distracted from the distraction. Meow. It was a faint noise, but the unmistakable sound of a cat. Milo assumed it was roaming down the street and paid it no heed. But the meow came again, too loudly to ignore. On the wall, directly adjacent to Milo’s kitchen sink window, sat a frail Calico. It had the signature merle appearance, but with more pronounced stripes, similar to Milo’s oldest friend, Stripes. The Calico paced back and forth like cats usually do. Milo had never seen it before and observing it move, he wondered if it had an owner. Calico was too darling to be a stray. Milo couldn’t look away. He was entranced by the patterns, movement, and ease by which Calico lived. It appeared to have a guide to life stowed away, one that it showed its dearest friends. Milo was smiling as Calico kept relaxing. The cat realized it was being watched and lazily gazed back at Milo. Its eyes were wide and full of opportunity, or at least that was what Milo perceived. With words unspoken, Calico beaconed to Milo, come outside, it’s nice out. Milo contemplated on what Calico could mean. Did it want to be pet? Maybe food? The fantasy of feeding that precious feline brought on a smile. Before Milo realized, he was laughing aloud. He turned off the faucet and shuffled into the living room. The cat blinked and went about its business. There was an assortment of cat stuffed animals, both domestic and exotics. Milo kept his collection neatly arranged by the fireplace. Cats probably enjoyed lying by a fire. He lifted up Socks and Sue, blended cotton and beanie interiors sewn with a lush faux fur. Milo scratched the chins of his buddies. Although the faux fur felt nice, Milo’s thoughts wandered. They strayed off to the Calico. How does his fur feel? Would he like pets? It was an odd sensation. Milo had not considered a friend he didn’t select or that was selected for him. He never desired to leave his home, so maybe there was a way the Calico could come in. The deeper Milo drifted into daydream, the more he lost sight of Socks and Sue. They reminded Milo of their presence once Socks had fallen to the floor, but Milo only noticed after he accidently stepped on her. Socks didn’t scream or cry, but she was hurt nonetheless. They had always been there for Milo, his sole comforts, yet Milo was able to just forget Socks. It was uncharacteristic. He picked up Socks and slumped over with guilt. Milo would avoid the Calico next time. Even with his resolution, he still secretly hoped there would be a next time. The simmer of Milo’s inquisitive interest didn’t take long to catch. The days moved in a haze becoming empty gestures of routines that defined Milo. They couldn’t be abolished outright, but the idea of breaking the daily drudgery enticed Milo. Newness, the previously filthy word for Milo and his upholstered compadres, was taking a new shape, at least for Milo. The word, and more accurately the symbol that represented it, Calico, was a forbidden fruit, a secret for a man that possessed none because he had no one to keep secrets from. As Milo went about his deeds dusting, petting, and fluffing, images of that precious puss slinked by. Calico was everywhere and nowhere. An ear poking up from behind the bedstand, jellybean paws stepping along the banisters, a tail dangling from the fridge, surprised and welcomed illusions. Every time Milo saw the cat that wasn’t there, he wondered where Calico had gone. It had been days since his last sighting. Milo outwardly displayed his joy over Calico’s absence with a wider smile than usual. The stuffed animals were not fooled. For his part, Milo’s performance not only failed to persuade his friends, it also took an emotional toll on him. Milo was not the same. What once brought him peace, felt devoid of anything. And the prospect of an unfamiliar fate, was the main solution to Milo’s unhappiness. Unfortunately, that adorable prospect was gone, disappeared just as mysteriously as he appeared. On the precipice of Milo’s absolute despondence, there was hope once more. It was Tuesday, and as with all Tuesdays that were, Milo made pasta with marinara. He never skimped on the sauce, which to Milo’s benefit, kept him at the kitchen sink longer. While scouring his sole pot, Milo’s ears perked up at the sound he longed to hear. Meow. A solitary cry that Milo was certain was for him. Beads of sweat formed on his brow. He had wished for this reappearance, but when it finally occurred, Milo was overcome with nerves. Doubts crept into his mind. This is crazy! These friends have been with me forever. I can’t abandon them. His burning desire to hold, caress, and coo with Calico couldn’t overtake Milo’s dependence on familiarity, on repetition, on comfort. The dueling emotions were terrifying and exciting, but Milo just wanted a simple solution, one that would whisk him to peaceful bliss. His wellbeing depended on an answer. The cat, totally unaware of Milo’s internal strife, performed his feline duties. He sauntered, looked lazily away, licked himself, but none of these gestures were drawing the attention of the man in the window. The cat was hungry. Meow, meow, meow. It was an embittered proclamation. There was no way the man would miss those calls. Calico needs me. The assertion cemented Milo’s decision. He had brought the seesawing of should I shouldn’t I to a halt. There was one clear direction; Milo needed to let Calico into his home. He and Calico could unite in an embrace, where Milo would shower Calico with love and snacks. The pot fell with a thud as Milo tossed it aside and walked toward the backdoor. Meow. I’m coming! As he reached for the handle, a subdued hum came from the living room. Milo stopped. He took a few steps back. The hum became clearer. It was a disharmony of voices. They were in different pitches, tones, and intonations, all shouting the same thing, how could you? His friends, many of whom have been there since his childhood, implored Milo to answer them. The three words echoed throughout the house. Milo darted around in some misguided attempt to escape the question. It was hopeless. They were too loud, too demanding. Milo ran from room to room, and in an act of complete debasement or passion, kissed and apologized to each stuffed animal as tears rolled down his cheeks. It took four nights of Milo neatly placing every friend in his bedroom for him to sleep comfortably. The remorse was overwhelming. After a bout of vomiting followed by a fever, Milo needed a cure to his shame-induced illness. The remedy that made sense was for Milo to stay as close as possible to each animal. Every single one of the 8,312 that didn’t regularly reside in the bedroom was delicately carried in and placed down with care. The process was labor intensive, but psychologically rewarding. With each trip up and down his stairs, Milo became obviously exhausted, but also gratified, not because of the exercise high, but because he felt reconnected. The lingering urge for novelty, Calico, was dwindling. Each of his plush pals offered something different in their own way and that was all the difference Milo needed. Before he would doze off, he would create and share stories of his stuffed animals’ origins. Milo wasn’t particularly imaginative, so the story took the same general arch. He didn’t care. The stories, the dolls, they made him happy. Those evenings, Milo rested deeply. Four nights wasn’t enough time, not to destroy the inkling for change. Either in his dream, or in reality, Milo wasn’t sure, he heard it. The sound entered his thoughts from an abstract and undisclosed location, but one that was close enough to eliminate the possibility of doubt. Milo heard it. Meow. The distinct specter of Calico’s existence, perhaps outside, perhaps in the dreamscape recesses of Milo’s brain. It was dragged out. Every decibel of that meow existed, existed just for Milo. He shot up in a panic, launching his closest friends off the bed. Milo was soaked in sweat. He looked around, saw nothing, and prayed that it was over, knowing that it was beginning. The following day started off like every other. Milo mulled about his daily procedures in his automated fashion. He hadn’t even considered the meow that haunted him in the darkness. No, there were tasks to be done and Milo would dutifully complete his tasks like he always had. The rearranging of his companions, dusting, sweeping, and breakfast were the same. Milo was content. There wasn’t anything to be concerned about. The nightmares were fleeting discomfort, and that was all. Milo kept assuring himself that as long as he remained resolute, things would be fine. Although the air was still, a chill ran down Milo’s spine. The window. The smudged window above the kitchen sink was the promise and pain of change. If that window remained uncovered, the opportunity of Calico would come again. It wouldn’t matter when, how often, or for how long. Milo couldn’t see Calico again, under no circumstance. The anxiety over the potential sighting of Calico caused a stir. Milo wondered why the sweet cat brought so much fear, and why that fear was so exhilarating. That latter notion was taken no further. No. Milo was going to be steadfast, strong, the same. His furry friends needed him, and anyone or thing outside of them was a deviation, a dangerous deviation. Milo went into his linen closet and pulled out a faded sheet that coughed dust and reeked of moth balls. It would do. There was no curtain rod mounted above the window, so Milo grabbed a handful of nails from his miscellaneous drawer. Unfortunately, he didn’t own a hammer. A shoe could suffice, but the soles of his two pairs weren’t strong enough. There was one logical conclusion. Milo stood on a chair, raised an end of the sheet with one hand, and used his other to push down the nails. The pain was remarkable, the worst that Milo had ever experienced. Nail by nail, his fingers swelled up, a couple tore open and drew blood. It was necessary. Eventually, the sheet hung before him like a flag of accomplishment. Milo had never nailed anything to a wall before, it was new, but rewarding. The makeshift cover served its purpose. There was no visibility to the outside world. Milo and his stuffed animals didn’t need anything beyond the occasional delivery of food. Stillness dominated their abode, everything slowed, and time itself seemed lost in the emptiness. Days, hours, and minutes were punctuated by the starts and ends to the usual. Time went from when to what. Eating breakfast, reading a story together, and on the routines reigned. Milo didn’t presume happiness but was satisfied with being anesthetized in recurrence. His furry friends were elated by the symbiotic codependence maintained once more. Calico was kept out, and Milo kept in. He didn’t think much of Calico, mostly because there were no reminders of his existence. However, either from divine intervention, or maybe just desperation, the cat found a way to reenter Milo’s life. Milo was trudging up and down his stairs. It was his exercise, which he always did carrying two of his plush dogs, their version of being taken on a walk. As Milo climbed the steps with Barks and Fido tucked beneath his armpits, a once familiar noise swept through the air. It wasn’t a whisper, not blaring either, simply clear, leaving no room for interpretation. It was a resounding meow. The indisputable song from Calico. Milo was perplexed by one oddity; he couldn’t determine the location of the meow. It was everywhere. The best response was to ignore it, ignore Calico, no matter how cute he was, Milo would resist. The solution was not so simple. That omnipresent meow was the first of an infinite. Every step or action Milo took, there was at least one meow that made itself known. Constantly, meow after meow, Milo was forced to hear, to remember, Calico was out there, waiting. It was after the third day of this plague that Milo’s facilities started to fail him. He was lying on his couch with an assembly of cuddly figures covering his body. Staring blankly wishing it would end, some transformation was taking shape among the popcorn ceiling. The random assortment of dots were rearranging themselves. It was a swirling of shapes until the final picture was clear. There, looking down, Milo saw Calico’s wonderful face enveloping half the ceiling. It didn’t have the brilliant fur pattern or even any color, but it was Calico. His mouth opened and let out a roaring meow. Either the force of the meow, or Milo’s startled leap, sent the stuffed animals into flight. They were scattered along the floor. Milo was too paralyzed to pick them up. He lied back down and gazed up at the blank ceiling. The following morning, Milo was convinced that Calico’s sighting was fate. That divine cat was created for Milo, but for what purpose, still remained ambiguous. He longed to see Calico and ask him. He would know. However, Milo was still too gripped by fear to leave his home, a fear that was exacerbated by his stuffed animals. They would admonish and remind him of the dangers that lurked beyond their sanctuary. Between the periodic meows, every friend, each 8,312, would scream at Milo. Some of the shouts were to stay safe, others were insults pointing out Milo’s shortcomings. There was no reprieve, no silence. Milo was brushing his teeth, focusing on the electric hum to drown out the chorus of voices. He bent over, spit, and popped up to see not his reflection in the mirror. Where his face should’ve been, Calico was there instead. Neck down was normal, pale skin wrapped in one of Milo’s many printed pajamas sets. But there, what should’ve been Milo, was the unique fur, whiskers, and soft eyes of Calico. Strangely, Milo was not alarmed by the image. There was a calm in the gaze looking back at him. A familiarity in the uncanny. Calico understood what Milo couldn’t convey. There was hope, not just for existing, but for living, free and without constraints. Those eyes, that cat, Calico, was the promise of something better. Milo was ready. He turned around and started to walk toward the stairs. It was difficult to focus though. With each step, the cacophony of insults got louder and louder. Each of his former friends wanted him to feel the sting of their taunts. You’re a traitor! You weakling! You’ll die out there! And on the opera went. It was deafening by the time Milo reached the banister. He fell to his knees and wept. Despite Milo’s tears and pleas, the roaring continued. Crying at the top of his stairs, Milo felt lost. Just a short journey away was liberation, and yet, he couldn’t move. Please. Milo uttered between sobs. There, cutting through the screams, tuning them down to nothing, Milo heard opportunity. Meow. Just once, but it was enough. Milo jumped to his feet and rushed downstairs with the power of a stampede. He rolled like thunder and intended to come down like lightning. Milo ripped off his pajama top, flinging the buttons in every direction. With a guttural battle cry from the caverns of his body that Milo didn’t know existed, he rushed toward the stuffed animals that littered his living room. The once beloved friends now faced Milo’s wrath. Despite their shouts, Milo proceeded to throw, punch, kick, elbow, stomp, bite, and rip everything he could get his hands on. The blind rage rushed blood to Milo’s eyes and head, turning him red and making his pores glisten with sweat. The once orderly living room transformed into a storm of fabric and cotton. There in the middle of the mayhem stood Milo. The various shredded materials clung to Milo’s exposed body. He lost himself in the destruction. Milo couldn’t tell where one toy started, and another ended. Anyone, no anything, that was within reach needed reckoning. Eventually, everything went quiet, no insults, no screaming, nothing. Only Milo’s heaving cut through the silence. His mind was blank. A wave of serenity washed over him. Things would be different; he was ready to move on. After a deep breath, it came. Meow. Milo smiled wide and rushed to the door. He held the stiff knob in his hand before rushing outside, shirtless, dripping, and covered in debris. Milo paced around his brick wall looking for Calico. There was a creeping panic coming on. Calico was nowhere to be found. How could Milo start anew? How could Milo survive without Calico? As the questions compounded, so did Milo’s anxiety. He stalked around his house like a caged tiger. Shoulders slumped over, eyes scanning around, sporadic breathing, Milo lapped his house four times. Calico would appear, he must, Milo needed him. Calico suddenly emerged from a bush at the end of cul-de-sac. He was far away, but Milo was certain it was him. The two were bonded beyond the physical realm. Milo and Calico would be together forever, entwined in an eternal friendship of love. Today was Milo’s renaissance. He sprinted toward Calico and in his excitement proclaimed for the world to hear, you are my everything! You are my everything! You are my everything! Babak Movahed received both a Bachelor and Master’s degree in American Literature. He defined the type of writer he wanted to become by examining the prose of writers like Hemingway, Faulkner, and Baldwin. Additionally, he received his first publication credit after an original short story was published by his university’s literary magazine. Babak still writes creatively in his free time. His recent works have been published in the The Hungry Chimera, The Blue Mountain Review, Hamilton Stone Review, Allium, and Smoky Blue Literary and Arts Magazine. @MovahedBabak
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