At first, I was happy for the new arrival. Yes, they keep her locked in the basement. Yes, she’s tied up. Yes, she’s barely conscious most of the time. In that sense, you could argue I wasn’t so much happy for her as I was happy to have her around. Because, sure, they’d beaten her – but they hadn’t broken her.

Weak, tied up and locked away – and still, this woman, Sierra, manages to resist all of Phoebe’s bullshit.

I like that. I like that a lot.

It pisses Phoebe off to no end.

I like that even more.

Unfortunately, one thing being weak, tied up and locked away doesn’t do is make for good company. Tried as I might’ve, I can’t seem to get her attention. I’m sure she notices me, of course – I’ve even jumped in her lap, for crying out loud – but her instincts have trained her to think of me as another one of Phoebe’s game pieces. It doesn’t matter how much I meow, or scratch or purr – she never so much as flinches.

I like Sierra, sure – but it’s becoming clear that she’s not going to be the one to turn the tide here. Much less actually help me.

That calvary of secret agents she keeps taunting Phoebe with might figure out that I’m a woman trapped in the body of a cat. One always be optimistic about these things. I mean, it’s not the craziest thing in the world: a cat-woman. Woman-cat? Whatever. I’m sure Phoebe’s done worse.

And – and – if I figure out how to do Morse code I could maybe meow something out. Scratching a sentence into the wood is also an option, but something tells me it’d take too long. And that it’d hurt. Maybe even chip a claw off.

If I get a claw chipped off, does that mean that I’d be missing a finger when they turned me back into a human?

“Aw, who’s a good kitty?” A voice pulls me back from my half-slumber.

I open my left eye. The ‘maid’ is patting my head. As always. No matter which crevice I try to squeeze into, she keeps finding me. Maybe she’s Phoebe’s way of keeping an eye on me? Not that I can see any danger I actually pose to her.

Maybe Phoebe sensed a bit of that ‘wishful thinking’ of mine and wanted to send me back to reality.

Thanks. Good job, maid.

The maid smiles. “You’re such a good kitty, you know that? Yes you are, yes you areeee!” She pulls gently on my ear. “Meowmeowmeowmeowmeow!”

And you’re literally an empty shell of a woman. Meow, meow to you, too, Doctor Elma.

I hop off the shelf I’d sprawled myself on.

“Aw, where you goin’?” The maid cries, as I scuttle around the corner.

I run down the downstairs hallway. Jamie’s there, hunched over, peeking through the curtains.

“Hello, Alana.” they say, knowing – obviously better than me – that I can never sneak up on them. “Was your lunch okay? I know you’re probably getting tired of the tuna. I’ll… head out tomorrow and fry you something, okay?”

“Meow.” I say.

They rub the back of their neck. “Uh. That’s one for ‘yes’, two for ‘no’, right?”

“Meow.”

“Mmh. Wait. Was that ‘yes’ to the lunch being okay? Or affirming that I should head out, because you’re sick of the tuna?”

“Meow.”

“Hmm.” They crouch down, leaning against the wall. “I guess we should develop a better language system, shouldn’t we.”

“Meow.” Like letting me talk? Like a human being? In English? I hear that’s pretty effective.

There’s a sound of a car passing by.

Jamie perks up and peeks back through the window.

Their left knee is trembling.

“A secret agent fleet wouldn’t just drive up to our doorstep, would they?” they muse. “I imagine it’d be like in the movies. They send out a strike team, surround the house, sneak around the bushes, that sort of thing.”

I offer no response.

Eventually, their shoulders relax, and they sit back down. “I’m sorry things turned out like this, for the record. For you, I mean.”

“Meow, meow.”

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“No? I’m… not sorry?”

How could you be? You’re helping her. “Meow.”

“I guess that’s fair.” They chuckle. “I’m complicit in everything she does, in a sense. And yet, I can’t say I feel any particular remorse for much of this.”

Some good your apologies are, then.

“But I do feel remorse.” they continue. “Make no mistake. I’m feeling remorse right now. Someone’s going to come to our door – maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow, maybe in a week – and I won’t be able to protect her. She knows it as well as I do. And she’s not afraid. Because she’s made peace with the fact I can only really help her when she’s dead. That’s all I’m good for. And that makes me remorseful, too.”

They sigh. “What kind of person does that make me? A ‘co-dependent?’ A parasite? I guess that’s all I can ever be. That’s all I’ve ever known. I live for her. I live for her to die, so I can play my part.”

I crawl into their lap.

“It’s sad.” they admit. “That I’m one of the few people in this house who has the luxury of being lucid, and yet time and time again all my thoughts go back to her. I know that. And I know it’s sad, no matter how you look at it. But it doesn’t sadden me. Because caring for Phoebe is like breathing. You just do it. You know? The rational part of my brain can’t outdo my instincts. A child loves their mother. And she, in turn, shows me love. That makes me happy. So, as sad as it is to you, probably, I can’t feel it. I can see it, but I can’t reconcile it with what I actually feel.”

They place their hand on my head. “I know what you think, Alana. Actually, I don’t. But I know what anyone who understands my situation would think. That I’ve effectively been brainwashed. That I could’ve had a happy life outside of this. That she’s a liar. That she’s selfish. And I know, given everything she’s done, that she has the capacity for it. If that turns out to be the truth, I wouldn’t be surprised. Not one bit.

“But, at the same time, what good would that truth do to me? That person’s long-gone. Erased. I’m Jamie. She is my mother. And I am her child.”

“Meow, meow.” What else do I say?

“Yeah. That’s fair.” They get up, still carrying me in their arms. “I’m rambling, anyway. It makes sense in my head, okay?”

Only because she makes it make sense.

I’m carried to the dining room, treated to the sight of the priest, Father Otto – the latest addition to Phoebe’s roster of puppets – wrapping up the last of the body parts belonging to Sierra’s partner. I never got the girl’s name. (Evie? Ellie?) For that matter, I never get a good look at her face, either: the head was the part that got wrapped up first.

Jamie mentioned Phoebe considering using it to shock Sierra into submission. They talked her out of it.

“May I ask you a question, Jamie?” Father Otto turns to us, setting the black parcel on top of the others.

Jamie smiles. “Assuming I can answer it, sure.”

“I’ve heard a certain rumor among some of the other guests here. I know we’re not supposed to discuss those sorts of things, but I think my curiosity on this matter is more warranted than the others’.” He looks to his feet. “Is it true? That every time she dies – she meets the Devil?”

Jamie tilts their head. “She mentioned that, once or twice. But to be honest, I can’t tell if you she meant it literally or not. I never bothered pressing her on it.”

“The existence of the Devil implies the existence of God.” The priest notes, his voice shaking.

“Having second doubts, Father?”

“I have just dismembered a woman and have placed her body parts in boxes. Needless to say, the sea of doubt is endless.”

“Should I call Phoebe? She’ll—“

“I’ll go to her myself. Before that, I just wanted to hear your thoughts.” He clears his throat. “That’s all.”

Jamie clicks their tongue. “The existence of God implies that there is an omnipotent being capable of creating anything. If an omnipotent being should, therefore, create a rock that nobody can lift. RighT? But if this being – this God – is omnipotent, he should be able to lift it. If he can lift the rock, then the rock is not impossible to move, thus God cannot create everything, thus he is not omnipotent. Thus, there is no such thing as omnipotence.”

“You know,” the priest smiles, “you’re making a case against a God altogether. You’re denying your own Goddess by this logic, aren’t you?”

Jamie shakes their head. “No. The point I’m trying to make is that God is a paradox. God is flawed. And a flawed beings can be usurped.”

“And how does one go about doing that?”

“How do you beat God?” Jamie chuckles. “You go and have the Devil give you pointers.”

The priest seems unamused.

Jamie’s own good mood doesn’t last long, either. “...Look. I’m not here to deal with your insecurities. She’s upstairs. Have her explain it to you.”

“Yes.” The priest takes one last glance at the parcels. “I think I will.” He pauses. “I’m thinking of bringing my brother over. He’s… expressed an interest in the—therapy.”

“I’m sure she’ll be glad to hear it.”

“Yes.” The priest blinks. “Yes, I suppose she will.”

Silence takes reign in the dining room. The priest’s eyes are now firmly locked to the parcels.

“I’ll go see if she’s ready to speak to you.” Jamie murmurs.

“I would appreciate that.” Father Otto remarks, slumping into one of the chairs.

As promised, we find Phoebe upstairs, sprawled across the floor of the bedroom. Her head is in the lap of a local coffee shop waitress, whose fingers gently crawl through the strands of the witch’s ashen hair.

“Hey.” Jamie sets me down near the door – a cue to hide behind the armchair in the corner.

“Hey.” Phoebe speaks through a half-yawn. The waitress’ eyes light up at the sound of her Goddess’ voice, but she doesn’t dare speak.

“You alright?” Jamie leans against the doorway.

“It was immature.” The witch sighs. “We shouldn’t have chopped her up. We shouldn’t have even killed her.”

“Are you going to ask me to eat her?” they ask.

“No.” Phoebe groans. “I can’t—taint you with one of them. And for crying out loud, Jamie, you’re not a revival machine.”

“Kind of am, though.”

She snorts. “Not a machine. Remember that. It’s important for me that you remember.”

“I know.”

Phoebe’s eyelids close. “It was immature. Yes. Okay. But what’s done is done. Immature can also be unpredictable. We’ve escalated things. We’ve got Sierra. They must know that by now. And the moment they find out what we did to ‘Edie’, things are bound to get nasty.

“But what’s keeping us safe – at least, what’s kept us safe since they got me in my apartment – was that they’re not sure what I can and can’t do. As long as they have the doubt, they’ll have the hesitation.

“The doubt – the fear – needs to outweigh their desire for revenge. I can’t take a team of them on. If Sierra’s anything to go by, I can’t really take a single experienced one on. But that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t have to matter.”

She rises to her feet. “Jamie. Did I ever tell you what the head doctor used to say, back in Mayfield? He’d always say it on his bad days – when it rained, when it was too hot, when we were too loud, when we were too quiet, when he felt lonely, when he felt overwhelmed, when he had to tell us we were loved – I guess you could say it was the hospital’s slogan, ha… But did I ever tell you what it was?”

“No.” Jamie answers.

“He said: ‘Reality always wins.’ Isn’t that funny? I’m a witch. I bend reality to my will. I’ve beaten it time and time again. But I always come back to those words. That idea. Like I’m winning these battles, but I’m always bound to lose the war.”

“Phoebe—“

“But I’m not going to lose, Jamie. And I have no intention of dying anymore – to those agents, to gravity, and especially not to wicked hospital doctors.

“It’s time to bring the fear back.

“Get the body parts. Let’s show them how unpredictable I can really be.”