Fiction | Consciousness
The Hole in the Basement Closet
A tale of existential uncertainty
I have two cats, both named Jihan.
Actually, they don’t belong to me, but they hang around and adhere to some game of loyalty expected between human and cat. And I hate cats. Maybe the Jihans hate me, too, but that’s fine.
They showed up when their previous owners gave up on them. They were bad cats.
“One time I ran away from home for three days without calling. I slept in a log next to a dirty apartment building and drank water from the puddles in front of the library.” That’s the story Grey Jihan once told me, with no regrets, sitting tall in reflection in my swivel chair by the desk. “I told myself I wouldn’t go home until I knew the reason I’m alive.”
White Jihan once was so depressed that he refused to eat for two days and never left the rug by the window. “I scratched my owner when she pissed me off once and she threatened to kick me out for good,” he said in vague self-pity. Anyway, that’s the story he told me a while back.
I don’t trust these cats’ stories but they sure are fantastic. I especially don’t believe White Jihan. I think he was trying to make himself sick to get revenge. That’s his game.
