You didn't even know Andy was pregnant. Otherwise, you never would have locked her in.

You take one fleeting glance at her before turning to close the door. You’re going to miss that orange-brown fur. She's looking up at you with those curious cat eyes, luminescent at just the right angle, half-expecting you to come back for her. She never was too frisky or too lazy. Didn't tear up the drapes, didn't sleep half the day away. Most of the time she acted as though she owned you instead of the other way around, the way cats often do. The perfect pet, as far as their species goes. You should've known. And probably would have too, if Mother hadn't been screaming for you to get in the goddamn car at the time, pressing down on that car horn as if there was any way you couldn't have heard her hollering from the passenger seat. So you shut the door behind you, but not without some reluctance. You'll only be gone for a day or so, you tell yourself. What could happen?

Everyone's in a bad mood by the time you climb into the backseat. No one really has any reason to be; but while laughter might be contagious, most other sentiments spread like a plague. You open your mouth to ask if you can open a window, and your jaw hangs idly for a moment before clamping back shut. Never mind. You're all breathing in the same recycled air anyway, let the anger circulate round this cramped shitpile of a car too. Your house grows smaller along the stretch of road as you drive away.

There has to be a special circle of hell for backseat drivers, somewhere between the wrathful (if I hurt you) and the hypocrites (it's because I love you).And the worst ones, in fact, drive the car from the passenger seat. You notice she isn't wearing her seatbelt; you pray for an excuse for traffic to come to a sudden jolt and send her crashing through the windshield. She tells him in her tense, high-pitched voice that she's never given him any reason to feel pressured. But even you wince at the sound of her words. He says nothing all the while, because it's rude for boys to mouth off to their mothers. Hands clasped white at ten and two. She starts to feel our quiet hostility rising and smothers it with a tantrum. She thinks her children are plotting against her. She's paranoid, of course, but what she doesn't know is that she's right.

Mother, she says traffic will be the end of her. Your eyes meet his through the rearview mirror. Hold his gaze for but a moment. You'll see a flash of something manic that's not quite the brother you know, and you half-expect him to drive the car clear off the road and onto a speeding truck. Then you'd have proven her right.

Atruck speeds past, so has your chance. It's not so much the opportunity you're waiting for, there's plenty of those, but the nerve to do it.

Take in shallow sighs. Are you there yet?

You lie down, curled into the fetus position. Funny, you remember this backseat being bigger. Something pokes at your side. It turns out to be the remote. Your lips pull back into a smile, grateful to be able to listen to some music. She flies into a blind ragethe momentyou turn on the radio. You're distracting him with all that fucking noise! Tone down the volume. Mother doesn't like to compete with any other noise but her awkward silence ensues, the calm before the your part, you've learned to cry very, very quietly. The secret is to choke back the sobs with deep intakes of breath. Exhale slowly until the urge to whimper falls back down your throat. She's going to launch into another self-righteous lecture any minute now. Your teeth are clenched and you never even realize it.

The car swerves to the right.

At the point of impact, you are still thinking about your cat. A split-second later, your ears are ringing so loud you fail to recognize the tends to happen when you're too close to the crash. It's then you realize, you are the crash. Shards of glass rain down on you. You shield your face with your arms. Raiseyour frail fleshagainst burning rubber and metal that's coming at you at eighty miles an hour. Good people of the world, they pull you out of the wreckage, unaware that they're ruining everything. Two of you leave the scene in a stretcher. One in a bodybag.

Walk away, here’s a few bruises and scratches to remember this by. You catch a glimpse of them pulling the metal shrapnel from his right eye. You cry, not for him but for yourself. His prison is now yours.

You go back home, only it isn’t anymore. You drove. Turn the key, start the engine; pull the lever to the chair. You should have sped up at the yellow light. You know this because Mother is kind enough to tell you so.

The moment you step foot in the house, his urn still in your arms, the first thing that catches your attention is a severed paw. The smears of blood lead you to the kitchen, where you find the mangled remains of what used to be a kitten’s head. There is nothing else. You look down, horrified, to see Andy rubbing up against your leg. Then spin your head to the direction of faint mewing. Another kitten – naked except for short tufts of fur spotted white and orange, Andy’s brown-range – making its way to the underside of the refrigerator. Stubby legs hurrying away from its own mother. It’s afraid, and it should be. It knew it was next.

Run, you think, frozen in place. The last of its tail disappears from underneath the fridge. Mother’s calling from the other room, asking where her cigarettes are. The urn feels heavier than ever.

She would have killed you too.