The Last House on Needless Street

by Catriona Ward

Now, Olivia is not a pet. She’s so much more than that. (I expect everyone feels this about their cat.)

As for me, Ted always calls me “you,” or “kitten.” But my name is Olivia. I have a thin slice of white down my chest, which sets off my coal-black coat.

She must have gone already. Good. But she never puts that god damn bike away. Oh dear. I really do try to say “gd,” not—ahem ahem. I don’t like to take His name in vain.

Now, why do I still have a bad feeling? What could be wrong? The Bible verse could not have been more positive. Anyway the trick to life is, if you don’t like what is happening, go back to sleep until it stops.

The TV is on, some creepy thing about a murderer stalking a girl in a parking lot. It’s dark, raining. The actress playing the girl is pretty good. She looks scared. I don’t like stuff like that so I leave the room. But I can still hear it: the running, the screams. I hope she gets away. Honestly, who watches this trash? There are sick

people in the world, let me tell you. I thank the LORD that my Ted is nothing like that.

I’ll try, I say slowly. But I can’t promise anything. Now leave me alone. I have to focus. As usual, everyone is relying on the gd cat. Honestly, teds are gd useless.