“Beauty Queen vs. The Bellatrix Menace”
Dear Diary,
I am at my wits’ end.
Truly. Deeply. Catastrophically.
Bellatrix is a domestic terrorist. There, I said it. She’s not just mean—she’s possessed. I’ve seen her eyes glow. I’ve heard her mutter curses. The other day, the humans were talking too loud and she BIT THEIR HEADS. One by one. Like some kind of furry warlord enforcing silence.
I am a beauty queen. I deserve elegance. I deserve peace. I deserve a velvet pillow and a bowl of filtered water.
What did I do to deserve her?
Just yesterday, I was enjoying a luxurious bath—tail curled, paws pristine—when I heard the banshee scream. I turned just in time to see Bellatrix charging at me like a missile made of claws and rage. I ran. I flew. I became a blur of fur skidding across the hardwood like a haunted tumbleweed.
Smokey laughed. Willow rolled her eyes. Ace tried to trip a human.
And Bellatrix? She just hissed and strutted away like she won a trophy.
I need a vacation. Or a priest. Or a Bellatrix-sized crate.
With grace and trauma,
Hiro