By Akela Jean Underland, Duchess of the Damp Towel, Heiress to the Unloved Pillow, Radiator Recluse Emerita

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C-ACT I: THE VANISHING OF THE WARDROBE
It has eloped. Or vanished or some such nonsense.
The Wardrobe. My cat-hederal. My sanctuary-of-the-solace The one space where my paws could meet silence like the creation of Adam in freeze frame. Only more poignant. More whimsical. Beautifully broken.

Yes. It was removed without consultation or vote. Or might I add. My permission.
Do I no longer matter? Am I not a citizen of this household? Am I not the sacred consultant of all feng shui situations?

Now, I had I been consulted, I would have predicted, there is void.
A tremendous gaping void where coats once rustled and where dust mites lingered.

The boys died.

My true friends. Comrades. My alma mater gone- no one mourns them – but me.

I howled of course. To no avail.
They said, “Stop being dramatic.”
But what is drama if not honest grief wearing eyeliner and a tail to swing from the changelier by?

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C-ACT II: THE BETRAYAL OF THE KITCHEN GODDESS
To add further insult to my already injured, meigh, tortured soul they have taken to calling me, “Twatty Bum Bum.”
For screaming once. For simply requesting the divine sausage with fervent clarity. They used to understand me.

But now? Now, I am but a peasant. A laughingstock. A legend untold.

But worse—far worse—
Mother no longer cooks the sausage.
No sizzle. No pop. No celestial aroma curling under the door.

She said (and I quote),
“You can’t keep eating sausage, twatty bum, bum. Your ass is getting fat.”
How dare she? Has she seen her ass balanced on those ridiculous stilts. Blessed bipeds. My ass? What of my soul? My needs? My morning ritual of waiting beside the stove like a loyal, ignored priestess?

I licked the handle of the frying pan in protest. It was not satisfying.

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C-ACT III: A TIME OF RECKONING
Rodgit has fled. Again. No forwarding address. No apology.
And they still speak of him as if he were innocent. As if he were worthy of biscuits. Ridiculous.

I watched Mowgli bite the air in sleep last night.
Dreaming of glory, no doubt.
He, too, took my spot on the pillowcase.
He, too, has chosen betrayal in pretend silk.
I piss on nothing now, for even that act feels too noble an act for them.

They whisper, “She’s in a mood.”
No. No mothers.
I am in mourning for my spirit.

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Curtain Call: A Declaration of Intent
The wind spoke to me through the gap in the skirting board.
It said, “They will leave again.”
And I believe it. For now.

So I wait by the coat pile.
In velvet rage.

And when they pack that suitcase again—
when they coo at Rodgit’s reappearance,
when they fry no sausage and offer me no pillow—

I will ascend.
To the top shelf.

And I will bat a fork off the table without breaking eye contact.

(Cue faint scream. Cue gas flame flickering with guilt. Cue curtain made of lint.)