The Black Cat Says I'm the Bad One

I was born bad. That’s what my family’s “psychic” black cat decided about me.

Mom always said the cat could sense people’s true nature. Good hearts drew it close. Evil ones made it hiss and snarl.

When Jasmine—the girl my parents took in—stole money from the house to tip male streamers on TikTok,

the black cat would just roll over lazily, exposing its belly to her.

But me? Even when I was just trying to feed it a small fish because it looked hungry,

it would arch its back and screech at me, its claws leaving deep, bleeding gashes across my hands.

At first, I tried to explain. But Mom would just shove me away:

“Beasts have instincts. They don’t wrong innocent people! Maybe the pain will teach you something!”

After countless scratches and insults, I started to believe it too. That I was rotten to the core.

The day the hurricane made landfall, seawater flooded the streets. A heavy shelving unit collapsed and pinned my leg.

I struggled, reaching out to Mom as she ran past:

“Mom! Help me! My leg is trapped!”

But that black cat just screeched at me like I was a demon.

Mom glanced at me thrashing in the muddy water. Her eyes turned cold and vicious:

“Playing victim to drag us down with you? You really are rotten to your core!”

She picked up Jasmine and climbed onto the only life raft without looking back.

As the icy seawater covered my nose and mouth, drowning me, I couldn’t help but think—Mom must be right. The cat was screaming, so I must not really be trapped. I must just be evil.

I’m sorry, Mom. In my next life, I’ll be good.