I always thought witches were fond of cats, but it turns out that becoming a witch requires you to kill one. Please — let me rewrite the folklore.

 

My family got Sergeant when I was fourteen, a black and white tuxedo cat with yellow eyes and a button nose. We called him Sergeant, but he looked much closer to something of a business man, his hide draped around him like a fancy suit. Sergeant was always there for me in high school, when I got that "C-" in Ms. Caldwell's AP Chemistry class or when he-who-must-not-be-named broke my heart that night after the junior prom. However, after leaving for college, growing up, and living away from my parents, I have to admit that I hadn't thought of Sergeant all that often. He was a sweet cat, but even sweet cats don't need us humans. They do their own thing. I can imagine my mom letting Sergeant roam around the apartment complex where I grew up. He probably rules that place. In the same way that I hadn't thought much of Sergeant after graduating high school, he probably hadn't thought much of me.

 

That's why it came as a shock when Madam Leery asked if I had access to a childhood cat. 

 

"It doesn't even have to be your childhood!" Madam Leery cackled as she watered her succulent collection, half of which were artificial plants. "Do you have little cousins? Little neighbors? Little orphans?"

 

"No, no," I assured her. Madam Leery always needed reassurance. On principle, she never believed the first words out of anybody's mouth. "Sergeant, the cat I grew up with," I said in my reassuring voice, "is still alive and well and living with my parents."

 

"Fantastic!" Madam Leery cheered. "Well, you'll have to kill it."

 

"What?"

 

"That is the Final Sacrament."

 

At this point in time, I had been training under Madam Leery for about six months to become a witch, and every once in a while she'd task me with another "sacrament," a required action for blossoming into a full-blown witch. Yeah, I get it. I know what you're thinking. How could I have been really sure that Madam Leery was a real witch?

 

Well, you see, I have this journal of mine from before I ever met Madam Leery. It's mostly old grocery lists and bad poetry, but there's also a few journal entries. There's one particular entry that's much more serious than rest, much darker, much sadder. I can even see where the paper is rigid from where a tear must've hit the page. Anyway, I used to work at this sandwich shop called Spike's. The full name was Spike's Rockin' Sandos, and it was exactly the kind of sandwich shop you're imagining right now: no wait staff, usually empty, poor sandwich quality, two and a third stars on Yelp, and a "B" health rating. I faintly remember my boss at Spike's, Daniel, but I don't remember much about him. He's just an outline, a blur of a tall man with dark hair and a shirt with high and tight sleeves meant to accentuate his biceps. Nowadays, when I read that journal entry, it's like I'm reading something that happened to another girl. I don't remember any of it. I don't remember clocking in for work that day. I don't remember the slow afternoon with no customers. I don't remember how Daniel locked the front door before we were meant to close, or how he led me into the back room where nobody could see us through the front windows, and I don't remember . . . well, that's as far as I usually read.

 

I don't remember quitting my job at Spike's Rockin' Sandos. I don't remember crying in my journal later that day, reliving every horrible detail — and thank God, right? 

 

The next thing I can really tell you is that Madam Leery popped into my life. Madam Leery was nice enough to me, and she promised she could erase my most painful memory. It wasn't long after that, I believe, that Madam Leery asked me if I wanted to be a witch, to be able to do the genre of magic that she specialized in: "Healing Magic." Although I can't completely remember my thought process at the time, you have to remember I was working at Spike's Rockin' Sandos for a year up to this point, so being a witch of "Healing Magic" wasn't exactly a step down. Anyway, I accepted the apprenticeship with Madam Leery and have been completing her sacraments ever since. 

 

"What do you mean I have to kill my childhood cat?" I stammered. "Madam, I was under the impression that our magic is meant to heal!"

 

"In order to heal, you must first hurt." 

 

She said it simply, and her thin purplish lips closed in protest. I had never seen this stubborn side to her throughout my apprenticeship. Thus far, every sacrament had been harmless . . . they'd been fun, even. 

 

I exhaled and said, "Is there any other way?"

 

Madam Leery shook her head. "No." 

 

"Well, I'm not doing it! I'm not going to kill an innocent cat! Madam, do you see how demented this is? How would I even do it? With a knife? What a bloody mess!"

 

"In the past, I have allowed my apprentices to poison their cats." Madam Leery smirked and added, "I know a recipe." 

 

"Are you crazy?!"  

 

"Yes." 

 

"I'm sorry, Madam Leery," I said. "I can't go through with this." 

 

"And waste all of your progress?" Madam Leery scoffed. "What a shame . . . "

 

"What do you mean waste all of my progress? I helped you make red paint the exact color of a lady bug! We cooked soup with rocks and acorns! Sure, we've had a good time working together, Madam, but other than some fun extracurricular activities, I can't say I've made much progress here!" 

 

Her eyes narrowed into slits. "Have you forgotten about Daniel already?" 

 

The hazy, dark haired figure sprung to mind. "What does he have to do with this? That was before we started the apprenticeship! That was before we did the first sacrament!"

 

"No," Madam Leery shook her head sternly. "Daniel was Sacrament Zero. If you stop now, at the Final Sacrament, the memory will come rushing back like a harsh, cold wind!" 

 

I'm writing this on the couch in my parents' apartment. I told them I was coming over for a regular visit, but I've spent more time than usual with Sergeant, running my hand along his fancy business-man coat and staring into his yellow eyes. They're droopier now than in high school, when I looked into them and divulged my young heart. In those days, it was only Sergeant's soft purr that comforted me, assuring me I'd make it to the next day and the next day and the next. Those nights of sixteen, seventeen, eighteen — when I slammed my door in angst and hurled insults at my parents, insults I didn't quite mean — Sergeant was always allowed in my bedroom. Unlike my parents, I was okay with Sergeant seeing me hurt. For some reason, even though Sergeant no longer feels like my cat, I still feel like he's protecting me, standing guard. 

 

I just flipped back through some pages in my journal, and I found that entry again — the one about Daniel, about my last day at Spike's. I have to ask myself if I'm okay with being that girl again — if I'm okay feeling her feelings of pain and suffering — that tear crusted on the page. Am I ready to have that memory back? To have the feeling of experiencing it all over again? Will it be sharp and grating instead of hazy and sad? Will it be scary? Will it haunt me every time I walk into a dingy sandwich shop? Or meet a new boss at a new job? Will I always think of him? Will I ever truly heal from something like that? Will I always hurt?

 

I turn and look into Sergeant's eyes. I see my teenage self staring back. I'm never seeing Madam Leery again. Maybe it's time I find some Healing Magic of my own.