Be careful what you wish for.

Adam wasn’t a bad guy; it’s just that lately: he’d been having a streak of bad luck.

That is if you can call poor spending choices and one too many nights at the pub ‘bad luck’ — hence, the drunken five-mile walk back to his flat, which would’ve been a ten-minute taxi ride if he could afford it.

A walk like that in the middle of the night in the middle of April would usually be sobering, but luckily he was nursing a bottle of cheap rum that he purchased at the off-licence with the last of his cash after the bar staff had bundled him out of the pub and barred him for life for an unpaid tab that he had somehow racked up to several hundred.

It was a particularly embarrassing moment because he was closing the deal with a girl he was chatting to (or at least, that was what he perceived), and she had watched as at least three of his cards were declined whilst sipping on the cocktail that he (did not) pay for.

The look of disgust that she had given him when she had to fork out for her own overpriced cosmopolitan-margarita-pizza-whatever cocktail with a stupid little umbrella was now burned into the back of his mind, and in a way, he was kind of glad he’d never set foot in that establishment ever again.

After struggling with his front door, Adam stumbled into his flat and into his bedroom, collapsing face down onto his pillows to welcome a deep and dreamless sleep.

Of course, as soon his body registered the relaxation that came with being horizontal on a soft surface, it lurched him up again and tore him towards the bathroom to violently vomit the contents of his stomach into the toilet bowl.

There wasn’t much besides the acidic taste of one of many beers coming back to haunt him but even so, when his convulsions finally came to an end, his body was too wrecked to move.

He conceded to passing out on his bathroom floor instead of his warm, comfy bed. At least, he convinced himself, he would be close to the toilet should his stomach need an encore, and sick was easier to clean off the tiles than it was the carpet in his bedroom.

Leaning his temple against the cold porcelain septic tank, he was about to drift off when his attention zeroed in on the slightest movement in the corner of his eye.

It was Mona, his chubby-faced British Shorthair, lingering by the doorway and coming to pass judgement on him for the third night in a row.

“Oh, what do you want?” he grumbled at her, his unnecessary hostility less towards the cat and more towards everyone who had wronged him that evening.

Mona stared blankly back at him before deciding that the itch on the back of her ear was more important than producing any kind of response.

“Ugh. You’re a pathetic creature,” he spat, which was rich coming from a guy covered in his own sick.

Despite his exasperated tone, Mona defiantly crossed the threshold into the room, pawing at the bath mat before taking a seat as if to closer examine the spectacle before her.

Adam glared as she purred.

“I wish you could just talk or something,” he said before he could think of how lonely and pathetic that sounded.

“Just say one word,” he rambled on, nonetheless. “One word—and we’ll be millionaires!”

“Adam, you’re taking nonsense," she replied, much to his horror. "Take a shower and go to sleep.”

He staggered back into the toilet brush holder and was suddenly wide awake and somewhat sober.

“W—what the—“

“You’re wasted again,” Mona said. “It’s Tuesday night, Adam. Get your sh-t together.”

And with that parting sentiment, Mona sauntered out of the room to god knows where, leaving Adam convinced that he had been slipped some sort of hallucinogenic in the course of the night and decided that he needed to sleep it off in bed.

He woke the next day, as always, with a fat lump of fur sitting on his chest and obstructing his breathing.

He groaned and pressed his palms into his eye sockets, hungover beyond belief but still able to remember so clearly the way Mona’s little cat mouth had moved in a way so unnatural to her species, forming words—no, full sentences—in plain and perfect English.

His movements must have woken the creature from its micro nap when again she looked straight at him and said:

“What are you staring at? Feed me.”

Adam bolted upright, and if it weren’t for Mona’s natural, cat-like dexterity, she would have been yeeted across the room.

“Y—Y—You can talk!” Adam spluttered, and he swore that she rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, isn’t that what you wanted?” she said, not without sass.

“S—Since when?!”

“Since you asked me to,” Mona explained with infuriating indifference. “Well, more like wished it for it last night.”

She sighed and stretched: an indication of her taking her leave.

“I’ll let you digest this new information,” she offered, graciously. “But don’t you dare think about making yourself a coffee or anything before feeding me first.”

Adam watched as Mona sauntered out of his bedroom, absolutely convinced he'd gone mad.

That was, until the early morning meows for food and attention turned into a daily yelling of: “Adam! ADAM! Get up and FEED ME!” like an obnoxious alarm clock he couldn’t snooze.

Be careful what you wish for, I guess.

Even if its stupid sh-t you think will never come true.