The last thing I wanted to do on my eighteenth birthday was listen to Mrs. Gable's cat, Mittens, serenade the moon. It wasn't a gentle meow; it was a full-throated, ear-splitting caterwaul that sounded less like a feline in heat and more like a banshee attempting opera. I punched my pillow, pulled it over my head, and squeezed my eyes shut, wishing with every fiber of my being that the damn thing would just… shut up.
My apartment, a shoebox-sized slice of urban mediocrity, usually offered a decent shield from the symphony of city life. Tonight, however, Mittens was clearly aiming for a solo career. My internal monologue, usually a witty, sarcastic commentary on the world, was currently just a loop of obscenities directed at a fluffy, four-legged demon.
I glanced at the cheap digital clock on my bedside table.
11:58 PM.
Two minutes. Two minutes until I officially became an adult. Eighteen. Woohoo. More responsibilities, less sleep, and apparently, a lifetime of Mittens' nightly concerts. My midnight-black hair, usually a cascade of unruly waves, felt like a tangled mess from tossing and turning. I pushed it out of my face, my eyes, which I'd always thought were just a boring deep violet, feeling heavy and gritty.
"Just… be quiet," I muttered into the darkness, not really expecting anything. It was a desperate plea, a raw, unfiltered wish born of sheer exhaustion and irritation.
Then, something shifted.