The Cat is on Fire and Other Disasters

Date: 11/7/2025

Ding. Ding. I wait on Mum’s doorstep, stamping my feet to keep warm. Jen stands beside me, her breath hanging in the air like cigarette smoke. We’re in the area delivering parcels, and I thought I’d surprise Mum with a visit. A quick cup of tea. A reminder that I still exist between shifts. Mum’s tea was never good, not really. It was Dad who mastered it — measured milk with scientific precision, steeped the leaves like a man conducting a ritual. But Dad’s been gone fifteen years now, and it’s just Mum and the silence he left behind. I try knocking. No answer. The door paint flakes under my knuckles like dead skin. I try the handle — it’s open. “Mum?” I call, stepping into the hallway. “It’s only me!” The house is colder inside than out, and not just cold — lifeless. The air feels pressed flat. I half expect to see my breath fog up in the living room. Except there is no living room. The space is hollow. Every piece of furniture gone, only pale rectangles on the carpet marking where things once stood. And a roaring fire that gives no heat. Jen peers around, whispering, “Has she been robbed?” Before I can answer, a movement catches my eye through the back door. Mum’s outside, sitting on her leather recliner — in the garden — surrounded by her furniture. The whole living room has been transplanted into the frost: sofa, armchair, lamp, even the television. The cable snakes through the kitchen window like a desperate vein. “Come on in,” she says cheerfully, as if we’ve arrived at a perfectly normal hour, in a perfectly normal place. “In?” I repeat, stepping into the garden. “I’ve rearranged the furniture.” Her eyes gleam, proud and tired all at once. “I can see that,” I say, forcing a smile. Jen looks like she’s accidentally wandered into a performance art piece about mental decline. “Shall I make us a cup of tea?” I offer. Mum nods, eyes already fluttering closed, her head sinking into the recliner. Inside, the boys — Maxi and Alex — are play-fighting in the middle of the empty room, their laughter ricocheting off bare walls like thrown stones. “Careful!” I warn. Monkey, our cat, darts through their legs, startled by the noise. He brushes too close to the open fire — barely a flicker of warmth — and a flame catches. A thin, cruel spark. “Monkey!” I shout. He bolts, a blur of smoke and panic. We all chase him, shouting different instructions. “Get water!” “Grab a towel!” “Stop, drop, roll!” Maxi finally tackles him near the hearth, pinning him down. He dabs something onto the cat’s paw from a bottle he’s found on the floor. The flame flares brighter. Monkey yelps. I throw a glass of water, and the room hisses. The fire goes out. The smell — burnt fur and something sharp — hangs in the air. “You’ve scared him half to death,” I snap. “I was trying to help,” Maxi whispers, head down. “It’s okay,” I lie. “Accidents happen.” Monkey trembles in my arms, his heart thudding fast against my fingers. I can feel mine trying to match it. Everything is slightly off-balance, like gravity’s turned unreliable. The air warps. The walls bend. Now I’m in the passenger seat of a convertible that has seen better decades. The bodywork flickers — rust-red, then dented silver, then beat-up blue. The driver changes too. His face morphs every few seconds — caucasian, black, asian, latino — but the same manic grin. He drives like the road owes him money. I feel like I’m in Grand Theft Auto. “Can you slow down?” I ask, gripping the seatbelt like it’s a lifeline. He doesn’t answer. The car shoots forwards, engine screaming. Houses, trees, entire worlds blur past. “Slow down!” He brakes, violently, and the car crawls to a stop. The world seems to hold its breath. A pink hula hoop rolls across the road. Children dart after it, laughing. Their voices are stretched and hollow, like sound played through a cracked speaker. I storm out of the car, shouting, “They could have been killed!” A woman stands by the gate, watching me. Her face is blank. Maybe she doesn’t understand. Or maybe she just doesn’t care. When I turn back, the car is gone. Only the hula hoop remains, spinning slowly in the middle of the road. It spins until it falls flat. The sound — plastic against tarmac — echoes faintly. Ding. Ding. Now I’m back at the depot. Same uniform, same fluorescent misery. There’s a new rule: we have to climb a ladder — one that stretches to the ceiling — to record our overtime on a whiteboard just out of reach. Rachel mutters, “Why do they make everything so fucking difficult?” “It’s like they don’t want us to claim overtime,” I say. No one laughs. They’re too busy wrestling for their turn on the ladder, dragging each other down. Rungs snap, arms flail, and no one makes it to the top. It’s a farce, if farce could make you want to scream. “My turn,” I say, gripping the sides. It shakes instantly, like the ladder itself is afraid. “You want a boost?” Jordan offers, palms cupped. “You’re alright,” I say. The whiteboard feels impossibly far away. “I’ll just give it a miss.” The union rep appears beside me, clipboard in hand. “You know,” he says with a grin, “you could’ve just written it on a sheet in the office.” I stare. “So this ladder thing—” “Completely pointless,” he says. “Management thought it’d be funny.” Something inside of me snaps quiet. Then I hear it again. Ding. Ding. When I turn, the depot’s gone. I’m back at Mum’s. The air smells faintly of smoke and milk. The house is empty again — stripped bare. The silence has weight. “Mum?” I call. No reply. Through the window, I see the garden. It’s blackened, as though something large burned there. And in the middle of the scorched grass, a single hula hoop turns slowly, catching the last of the daylight. It spins without wind, without sound — just turning, endlessly, on its own.