Who Killed the Cat?

I’ve entered the director’s office only three times in my entire career. Once to sign my employment contract, and the other two times when he personally called me for help, convinced I was the only one who spoke the truth. But my virtues—truthfulness and the fight for justice—are, in this society, especially in a state-run firm, perceived as severe flaws.

A sweet old man once told me, “My dear, some people are born this way, and injustice and lies will always bring you pain ‘till the day you die.” So far, he’s been right, though I’m not yet close to death.

Remaining silent is impossible when you’re sensitive to such matters. Truly impossible. Some people clearly don’t understand that, and that’s why the silence has turned into a virtue instead of a flaw. As a result, it’s been immensely challenging to work all these years for a director who is, quite simply, a criminal.

For thirty years, he hasn’t budged from his position. Consequently, he’s learned exactly where the strings are and how to pull them, all while terrorizing employees, stealing, lying, and using a state institution as his private property. But as I said, I don’t know how to keep quiet, nor do I fear anyone but myself.

For the other employees, the mere threat of being fired is enough to make them tremble in fear. Some aren’t intelligent or doesn’t have integrity to notice that all their rights have been stripped away, while others are just like the director and thrive under his rule.

Years of his abuse have led to a situation where I no longer speak to him, and after that he decided not to speak to me either.

But, recently occurred an incident. His cat, who had resided at the firm for years, died. The cat was the only permanent resident there. The director would wake up the commissionaires to feed the cat, and he urinated all over the firm (the cat, not the director). We’d all go home covered in its fur. Highly educated people would chase it across the roof or climb trees to bring it down, which means the cat was a prisoner too, and it didn’t seem to like the director either. He soon became depressed and overate (the cat not the director) and turned into more of a bear than a cat.

That afternoon, when I heard that Lucky had died (he believed naming him "Lucky" would bring good fortune—not the cat, the director), I knew, as the office’s usual suspect, that he’d somehow pin the blame on me.

They said Lucky died at the vet and was properly buried somewhere. But the employees were uneasy because the director had planted rosemary outside the entrance—not in the ground, but on a small mound of earth. Everyone feared he had buried the cat there. That rosemary at the entrance became an epitaph for all of us. The director’s obsession with control now extended even to the dead.

The following morning, as expected, I was summoned to the director’s office. Since we no longer spoke, I had no idea what he wanted, aside from perhaps asking for my alibi.

I knocked and entered. Inside, it was no different—if anything, it was worse. The director had always been superstitious, collecting talismans, treating his hypochondria with various herbs, and unsuccessfully shielding his sanity with countless icons, even though superstition is a sin in Orthodoxy. Talismans and icons together revealed the extent of his delusion.

He even kept the cat locked up to place it against various parts of his body all day because, as they say, cats heal. We’d often see him pressing Lucky against his lungs, stomach…he even pressed him to his eyes, holding it atop his head or between his thighs.

His office now resembled an abandoned apartment of some old woman who fancied herself a witch. The smell of stale incense mixed with Lucky’s urine made it a unique sensory experience. Of course, the lights were off, except for one lamp illuminating countless jars of teas for everything.

As a matter a fact, the office perfectly mirrored his mind, which I’d never found frightening but rather amusing. That was enough for a start. His madness entertained me, making his office oddly comfortable.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Sit down,” he replied.

I approached the desk but remained standing.

“You called me?” I asked, trying to appear indifferent.

“This will take a while. You’d better sit. I’d offer you tea, but I’m aching…” he said, barely audible, utterly broken.

“I’ll make us some tea,” I offered, as polite as ever. “Feel free to start. Why did you call me?”

His gaze darted between the icons on the walls and the empty spot where Lucky used to lie. Amid the talismans and scattered tea leaves, he desperately sought a sign that everything wasn’t over. But there were no signs.

“You know,” he whispered, staring at Virgin Mary, “everyone said Lucky would live much longer. He was healthy, and then suddenly... gone. Since then, I’ve felt this way. Strange, isn’t it?”

“Shall we use this one?” I held up a jar. He nodded faintly in agreement.

“You’re the only one I trust,” he said as he watched me pour water for the tea. “You know, in this world full of lies, your honesty is the only thing with weight.”

"And yet, it’s you who placed such a deep weight on my life because of that very honesty," I replied.

It pleased me to remain calm. His power was never real, nor his poor health or paranoia. Lucky’s death was, for him, a sign. Not just that his reign was ending.

“You’ve always been different. You never seemed afraid. I’ve always hidden my fear behind aggression. But I’m scared. I’ve always feared death. And now I’m dying. I know it. Lucky was the only thing keeping me alive.”

As I watched the water boil, I simply remarked, “And you think I had something to do with that?”

To my astonishment, he replied, “No, of course not. If I suspected anyone, it would never be you.”

“Excuse me?” I couldn’t believe what this twisted man was saying.

“Higher forces…” he added in a spiritual tone.

I brought over the tea cups and placed them on the table.

“So if that’s not why you called me here—what is?” It was impossible to guess what was happening in that deranged mind.

“I called you to understand what it’s like not to be afraid.”

“You’ve been watching that for 26 years while trying to drag me to death.”

“Don’t exaggerate. I was never mean to you.”

I reflexively laughed loudly and honestly before sitting down.

“Listen, you’re not going to rattle me. That time has long passed. But if you think we’re going to play ‘who here is crazy,’ I’ll leave right now.”

He recoiled in fear. “No, no, okay, I’m listening. What do you blame me for?” he asked calmly.

“Well, let’s begin.” Blame” doesn’t even begin to cover it.

“Just listen. Before we begin… I want you to know. Someone has to. I can’t take it to the grave. There’s something I’ve never told anyone. My greatest crime, out of all the things you’ll surely accuse me of. Something that must never see the light of day, and I can only tell you because you’re the only one who stands by your word.”

“Do you, miserable man, after everything you’ve done to me, want me to be your confessor?” His madness exceeded anything I had imagined.

“But what terrible thing have I done to you?” he asked, sipping his tea.

He still managed to provoke me, though I was glad! I lifted my tea cup as well. We would have a little chat over tea. Delightful!

“Do you even remember that I started working here at sixteen? You’ve been here thirty years, and I’ve been here twenty-six. But you forgot to tell a child, who didn’t yet know their rights, to sign a contract. You stole four years of my employment record.”

“That was so long ago. Who remembers such things?”

“I’ll remember it when I have to work four years longer before retirement.”

“Or your denials of my requests. Everyone had the right to housing allowance—like our colleague who had tea with you every day and yet lived with her mother. Meanwhile, I was really renting at the time. And the next morning, you issued a ban on housing allowance payments. Travel expenses? While your financial director with a fake address was receiving them, you rejected my valid request. The same scenario—next morning, travel expenses banned. Then there was my request to use the company computer for personal purposes, while your operations director spent all day using it to watch pornography. Other colleagues also used it freely while regularly having tea with you in this office. I was denied. The funniest part? These bans always came back into effect the moment I fell silent.”

“It had to be that way. If I allowed you, everyone else would demand their rights too.”

As he spewed nonsense, I stayed focused on his lips pressed against the tea cup and continued.

“You issued me a warning for dismissal because I spilled juice on a colleague who had physically harassed me for a year. But when you assigned me a boss who tortured me, and I pleaded with you to protect me so I wouldn’t have to defend myself and get reported again, you remained deaf.”

“You know that workplace harassment is hard to prove in court. But you’ve always managed to grit your teeth and endure. I’ve never understood how you do it. People bend under pressure, they break, they run, but you stayed. You always stayed.”

He didn’t understand. I stayed because I had no choice. Fight or flee. I loved justice and truth too much to choose the latter.

“Yes, I stayed. I didn’t run. But you broke me. Do you remember my only sick leave in all these years? A nervous breakdown! Because of you! And all you had to say was, ‘Make sure she sends in her medical notes, and why the hell is her mother calling on her behalf?’”

“You idiot! Because I was lying on the floor, unable to speak!”

“The last straw, which led to my breakdown and from which I rose like a phoenix, regaining all the God-given strength within me, was the false report from your operations director to the police, accusing me of threats and blackmail. You knew it was a lie and just sat there, smirking.”

Then there’s that infamous promotion that, according to the company statute, I should have received at twenty-six. I didn’t get it, not after countless requests, complaints, and appeals—not even at forty-two.

I was exhausted and fell silent.

For years, I believed someone else would put an end to this. Years passed. Justice remained distant. Now I know that justice is sometimes just a matter of opportunity.

“This is how the system works, and you know it. We’re all part of the system.”

“Yes, the system. The system you created. A system that served you while we paid the price.”

“You must understand, it wasn’t my system. I inherited it with the position. And who can survive in this world if they’re not clever enough to use the rules, even if they are unfair? Rules are the only thing holding the system together.”

He wasn’t the problem; he was the product. A system that crushes people creates such individuals. But today, this system is losing one of its pillars.

"Is this everything you hold against me?" he assumed I was done from the lowered tone of my voice.

"Can I now confess to you my worst crime?" He still thought only of himself.

"Do you have no shame, even after all this, to ask for my help? To have me take your misdeed upon myself and guard it as a secret?!"

One last time, he defended himself with faux authority: “It’s not that simple. You don’t understand what it means to respect the system. You must be firm, you must be ruthless!”

“Ruthless? You don’t know the meaning of the word, but you’ll learn soon enough.”

He finished his tea quickly, more out of habit than enjoyment. His hand trembled slightly as he lifted the cup to his lips. The silence between us grew dense, like the inevitability of what was coming.

“This tea tastes different…” he paused, touching his throat.

I nodded, remaining calm.

I settled comfortably into the armchair, crossed my legs, and sipped my tea slowly, savoring every sip. Across from me, he gulped his down like it was his last.

“You have to listen to me. If anyone can understand, it’s you. You’ve always known what’s right and wrong. You’ll decide if there’s hope for me,” he said as his mouth dried and his body began to tremble.

Empathetic as always, I asked concerned, “Are you alright? Should I call for help?”

Slowly, in a weaker and weaker voice, he whispered, “I told you… I was right… I’m dying…”

He became paralyzed, though still breathing.

Once, I would have trembled at this moment. Today, I’m merely an observer, no longer a victim. This isn’t an act of passion. This is the end. He deserves nothing but what he sowed. And what he sowed was a flower Angel’s Trumpet—an angel that loudly proclaims the truth. That’s me.

I watched him from my comfortable armchair as the poison in the tea finally took effect. With a coldness that killed, I said:

“I’m glad you still keep Angel’s Trumpet in the office, though I’m surprised your paranoia allowed it. Its beautiful bell-shaped flowers may appear delicate, but they conceal a deadly truth. Consuming these flowers can cause hallucinations, paralysis, memory loss, even cardiac arrest. The leaves and seeds are the most toxic, you know. I thought I’d give you the pleasure of trying tea brewed from Angel’s Trumpet for the first time.”

As his heart raced, his paralyzed eyes stared at me in disbelief.

“That’s right. Just relax. Don’t bother speaking.”

His gaze seemed to ask, Could it really be you—the one who wasn’t fair all these years?

“Oh no, dear. It’s just that… Even justice has its limits.”

The room fell silent, except for the faint sound of my breathing. I stood up and looked at him one last time. Justice isn’t always black or white. But it’s inevitable. The system won’t disappear with him. It will only lose one of its guardians. Justice wasn’t about changing the world. It was about survival.

He rasped, his words hanging like a thread over the abyss. “But there’s something worse… something I have to tell you… something no one must ever know…”

And as his head slumped onto the desk, I let him and his words hang there, thinking it’s his secret and crime that truly mattered.

Placing my cup down beside his head, I smiled softly and whispered:

“No one will ever know.”