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"I live in a goth house" - true stories and perspectives of goths' pets

"I live in a goth house" - true stories and perspectives of goths' pets


Meet Amelia. She works at a tax office down the road, and is a fun person to hang out with. During the week, she works a lot, then comes back to her flat and spends her free time with her pets (dog, cat, and bird) or she goes on the internet. On the weekends she drinks with friends and goes dancing at a local club that has a goth night. Oh, did I mention that Amelia is a goth?

I asked Amelia if I could write a short piece on her – and especially the goth facets of her -- from her pets’ perspectives. I’ll let Amelia introduce herself.

"Hello, people of the internet. So, all the above is pretty on target. I love my pets and they love me. I’m more than curious to see how the pets could see me any differently because of the goth thing. I’m sure they love me because I’m me and that my aesthetic tastes and choices have little to do with it, but knowing the author, I’m probably in for a bit of a reveal. Let’s just see how this plays out. I now return you to your regularly scheduled writer."

- Thanks for being a good sport, Amelia. I hope you’ll still talk to me after this.


~Bowhaus (the dog)~


It happened again: they came in laughing, they pet me at the door, and in no time, the cat thing somehow changed them. That cat thing – they call it “Suzy,” I call it “Hate Heart” – manages to put them under her spell with her purring. How that dark magic works, I do not know.

Penelope and Magdalene came over to Master’s home earlier tonight. They drank the strange, dark, acid-smelly water that makes them stumble. They laughed and danced as they entered the forbidden room.

Master still thinks it’s her bedroom, but I believe Hate Heart, with her yellow-slitted eyes of loathing, has enchanted Master and taken it from her. Before the door closed and before the purring sorcery (which I am, thankfully, immune to) began, Hate Heart glared at me from Master’s soft black bed. Since the arrival of Hate Heart, I am no longer welcome to the bed. The cat thing has clearly poisoned Master’s mind to think my golden fur is now some bane of her existence. Hate Heart can barely be seen in the lair because she blends into Master’s belongings. But I can see those eyes, and I can always smell her, no matter how long it’s been since Master has been forced to change the box of droppings (that I am woefully forbidden to eat).

When Master and her friends left the bedroom, their appearance had changed. Their faces were somehow whiter, their lips darker, and their eyes had once again morphed into sharp, outlined predator eyes. Clearly they have been commanded by Hate Heart to hunt for her while she lounges in black, velvety splendor on the stolen bed.

I will find a way to rescue Master from Hate Heart. I will find a way.

~Siouxsie (the cat)~


They vex me so, the denizens of this place. I am kept from the outside world in this mildly comfortable hell. Because of my beautiful and immaculately maintained black fur, the dark bedroom is my domain.

Tortures are visited upon me daily. A morsel of a bird is held aloft in a small metal fortress that cannot be reached (and thus, savored and devoured) by me, despite my numerous attempts. The drooling yellow guard beast – clearly enslaved to keep me from escaping or enjoying life – blinks its stupid, brown eyes at me and shows its tongue as if letting me know that I am the caged bird.

Tonight the human and friends once again painted their faces in a parody of my kind and went out into the night. Surely this is to break me further, to tease me with their freedom. But I know the true hunt is not within them. And I know that they will undoubtedly return – hours later – sweaty and tired with a bag of bounty containing only something they call “french fries.”

~Tweetie Lugosi (the bird)~


The horror… The horror.

Late last night, the human returned with her friends. They paraded about this dark, strange place laughing and dancing and flailing their pale and featherless appendages in what is surely a mockery of my caged plight.

The feline seeks to destroy me and the canine surely wears a disguise of some sort. Certainly if it were as stupid as it appears, it would choke upon its own tongue. As much as that creature sheds, I fear that I will find – as time wears ever on – that what lies beneath will be the beast’s true form. Who knows what will befall me then.

The sounds the human calls “music” are a pulsing soundtrack to my drawn-out demise. The human plays recordings of scrap metal being flung and scraped and clanged, as a human screeches along in German. I imagine they play something similar in Guantanamo Bay to torture the prisoners.

The brightly lit “pet” store where I was purchased played Christmas music -- songs of warmth. Here, I am subjected to the German screeching – or, at times, the soundtrack to something called “Nightmare Before Christmas.” The human urges me to sing along. Surely it must know that I cannot master its guttural tongue. If only the creature was intelligent enough to learn my nuanced language it could hear my curses, but instead it finds my “tweeting” painfully amusing, alas.

Christmas will never come. And this nightmare will never end.


So, we’re still friends, Amelia… right?

floi Journal author

Posted: 1 year 4 months ago by Lilith Vanderstorme #2787
Lilith Vanderstorme's Avatar
Oh my, this is amazing haha! Great writing
Posted: 1 year 4 months ago by Immortalbae #2783
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"The human plays recordings of scrap metal being flung and scraped and clanged, as a human screeches along in German." Ahahahahaha, this is exactly how my mother describes EBM :D Fantastic text! I laughed so much :D