What We Have Lost

The woman woke up, blinking a few times, noticing the boy watching her from the door.

"You know I don't like it when you stare at me while I sleep."

The boy didn't answer.

She sat up—there was no way she could go back to sleep knowing she was being watched. She reached for a slipper, then, without looking, searched the floor with her toes for the soft texture of the other one. Once she found it, she slipped it on, stretched her arms high above her head, clenched her fists, and stretched as much as she could until her whole body shivered and her bones cracked—a sound that usually made the boy laugh, but not this time.

"No?" she asked, just to say something, not realizing something was wrong with the boy. "Not funny anymore?" she said while lowering her arms and standing up to grab her robe. As she put it on, the boy walked out of the room toward the kitchen.

As she descended the stairs, she heard a faint shuffling sound coming from the closed room and groaned softly. Her steps made a dragging noise against the floor with each contact of her slippers as she went down.

The boy was already at the kitchen counter when she entered.

"And you couldn't start the coffee maker?" she teased.

Now he laughed, even pretending to be embarrassed, like a normal child ashamed of not helping his mother with something any other kid would have done instinctively, an automatic response ingrained in basic universal education.

"Alright, alright, I'll do it."

She scooped the ground coffee into the container, poured water into the reservoir, and turned on the machine. The bubbling sound filled the quiet house, soon followed by the delicious aroma of roasted coffee, momentarily breaking the stillness of a gray and silent home.

But the pause didn't last.

Just as she poured herself a cup, right before taking the first sip, with her lips pressed against the rim of the mug, she caught sight of the boy's terrified face staring at the glass doors leading to the garden. Instead of drinking, she turned, still holding the cup.

A cat.

And the cat was staring at her, motionless.

Then another arrived and sat before the window.

It stared at her too, completely still.

Then a third one, licking its lips the moment it stopped in front of the kitchen, sat back on its haunches, eyes locked onto hers.

Then another.

And another.

Then two more.

Three more.

Five at once.

Seven together.

Many.

More and more and more and more. The cats only stared at her.

"What the hell..."

"Mom!" the boy pleaded, and she turned, dropping the mug onto the table, shattering it. But instead of coffee, worms spilled out.

The boy was no longer at the table. She looked around wildly. Searching with her eyes in every direction, from where she sat. She couldn't see him.

She tried to speak, but no sound came out. She tried to stand, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't move.

"Mom!" he pleaded again, but this time, his voice came from outside. She saw him there, in the middle of the yard, surrounded by all those cats—hundreds of them, still arriving, filling her home—and he, terrified, looked at her with a face shattered by fear. And then, just as she seemed to overcome the force restraining her, all the cats, in unison, meowed once and fell silent.