They say cats always land on their feet.They never said anything about ceilings.
Let's begin at the beginning, the part of my life where I was undeniably at my best: full stomach, warm patch of sunlight, a gentle breeze fluttering the curtains, and an attitude so regal that even the dog didn't dare challenge it.
I'm Mochi. And, let me be clear, I was flawless.
Not in that humble, "everyone's special" way. No, I mean it in the purest, most feline sense: I am the universe's favorite child, and everyone else is merely an obstacle between me and my perfect life.
At the ripe age of four, I had my humans wrapped around my little paw. I meowed, and they leapt. I shot them the evil eye and they opened cabinets. I sat on the keyboard, and they stopped everything just to lavish me with attention. One time, I even vomited on a pillow, and they apologized to me.
I was dominating at life.
But life, as it often does with queens—especially fluffy ones—is cruel.
The Incident
It began with a smell.
Not just any smell, mind you. It was bad. Bitter. Pungent. Like charred toast but somehow worse—more doomish. I cracked open an eye and twitched an ear. The grown-ups were fighting again, their voices rising in the kitchen like the melodramatic chorus of a bad opera.
I rolled over, determined to ignore it.
Then the fire alarm went off.
Rude.
My tail bristled as I shot upright. Smoke poured in under the bedroom door, gray and thick, curling like the fingers of an impolite ghost.
There was shouting. Yelling. Human shouting. The stupid golden retriever, Flapjack, was dashing around in wild circles, barking at a wall, convinced that he could scare the fire away by sheer enthusiasm.
I was already halfway under the bed when I heard it:
"Mochi! Where's the kid!?"
The kid. My human. My little fish-stick deliverer. The one who once, out of the kindness of her heart, gave me half of her pudding cup just because I seemed "hungry and sad."
She was nowhere to be found.
Cue dramatic music.
I didn't wait.
(Okay, I waited a little because there was a suspicious stack of laundry with a broccoli-scented betrayal lingering in the air.)
But then I heard her cough. A wheezy, pitiful sound from the hallway. I ran toward it.
The bookshelf had toppled over. A beam had fallen from the ceiling, trapping her beneath it, the poor child clutching a half-melted stuffed dolphin as if it could save her.
"Meow!" I yelled, which, in Cat, means: "Don't worry, little human. Your incredibly brave and gorgeous savior is here!"
I darted between a pile of textbooks and cartoon albums, my whiskers catching fire for a moment. I ignored it.
With one heroic bound, I leapt forward, using all my strength to shove the beam off her.
Success.
She tumbled out from under the debris and into her panicked parents' arms.
I strutted forward in true champion style, tail held high, as though I had just singlehandedly saved the world.
That's when the ceiling caved in.
Welcome to the Void
Now, I would like to lodge a formal complaint with whoever was in charge of ceiling stability in the afterlife.
Because, let me tell you, being crushed by a chunk of fiery drywall? Zero stars. Would not recommend.
I expected agony. Screaming. Maybe a flash of light and a clipboard-wielding angel.
What I got was velvet blackness.
Not terrible. In fact, it was kind of fuzzy, like cinnamon and doom from outer space.
A shadowy form drifted above me, shapeless and shifting, with more eyes than was strictly necessary. It looked like a jellyfish made of starlight and cosmic secrets.
"Well," it said, its voice like dry pages rustling in the wind, "you did something out of the ordinary."
I blinked. Or, at least, I thought about blinking. I wasn't entirely sure I still had eyelids.
"You gave up yourself," it continued. "For a human."
"I was promised nine lives," I replied—or at least tried to. But dead cats don't get subtitles, apparently.
"You were," it answered. "And you still are. One down. Eight to go."
"So I just… get recycled?"
"More like reimagined," it chuckled. "But here's the twist: there's someone waiting for you in each life. Different faces, same soul. Sometimes they'll save you. Sometimes they'll try to kill you. Every time, they'll matter."
"Who?!" I demanded, now genuinely worried about my future spleen.
The entity tilted its—whatever it had.
"You'll know them when you see their eyes."
That was vague and not at all helpful.
Before I could protest further, the velvet void started to fade.
"You'll live eight more lives," it told me. "A killer. A student. A swan. A god. A man. A baby. A thief. A monk."
"Wait, a baby?!"
"Good luck, Mochi. Or should I say… whoever you'll be next."
And Then I Woke Up
The first thing I noticed was the cold.
The second? The dagger clutched in my hand.
The third? I had hands.
Human hands.
Fingers. Thumbs. Opposable digits. I wiggled them, disgusted and fascinated all at once.
"Oh no," I whispered, realizing the full scope of my new existence. "I've got taxes now."
That's when someone yelled:"There she is! The assassin! Get her!"
So, like any reasonable cat-turned-human would do in a moment of peril, I ran.
Into the darkness.
Into my new life.
And straight into the arms of my future arch-nemesis.
(Who, by the way, was annoyingly cute.)