There’s no-one between me and Priscilla now Dad is gone. Most of today she has avoided me. She has just stayed in her room screeching into her cellphone planning some lame concert she wants to have here and smoking. She is always smoking.

When my dad goes out she smokes indoors and it grosses me out. It stings my lungs but she doesn’t seem to care. She doesn’t seem to care about anything except her scary demon-dog.

When Priscilla moved in, my dad made me give her my room. Which is ridiculous, because she sleeps in the same bed as my dad. My dad says she needs a ‘studio’ to work from.

On top of being a businesswoman, Priscilla is also an amateur pop star. She sings Afrikaans pop and has her own YouTube channel. I watched one of her videos and almost died laughing. She was wearing a gingham shirt, cowboy hat, and singing this lame song called Liefie, Liefie, while stroking a donkey on the nose and feeding it a carrot. It was pretty much the lamest thing I have ever seen. She sent me a request on Facebook to ‘like’ her artist’s page, but that’s clearly never going to happen. I mean, imagine the embarrassment if my friends found out. Eish!

So not only do I live with the next Patricia Lewis, but my dad made me give up my bedroom so that she has a place to ‘blog’ and ‘record her songs’.

Then there’s her voice. It sounds like a cat dying. Seriously, the woman is tone deaf. She must use AutoTune to sound even a bit OK.

Dad likes her more than he likes me. Why else would he bend over backwards to accommodate her dumb hobby, turfing me out of my own room in the process? Now I stay in the spare room, which is half the size and has no view. It is just about the unfairest thing that ever happened.

It’s the school holidays. I’m trying to have a fun time and forget my worries, but my living situation is bugging the hell out of me. Most of my school friends have gone away with their families. I bet they’re doing something fun, like fishing or having a picnic. Me, I’m lying on my bed staring at the ceiling with my earphones on, wishing I were somewhere else.

I hate hiding in my room from Priscilla the Singing Witch, but I can’t think of anything else to do. Mostly on weekends if I’m not hanging out with Dad, I watch cartoons, or else draw in the kitchen. But now that Priscilla is in the house, I don’t feel comfortable. What if she tries to make friends with me? The thought is unbearable. I don’t want another mother. I will be loyal to my real mother, till death.

I go downstairs, treading softly so as to go unnoticed. It feels silly to creep around like a mouse in my own house, but this is what it has come to.

We have a cat. Her name is Toby. She is light grey with green eyes. She has a little bit of white right at the end of her tail. She is very friendly for a cat, and even lets you pick her up and cuddle her like a baby. Her basket is next to the fridge because she likes to listen to it humming. It sounds almost like a purr. Toby isn’t in her basket as she usually is in the morning. She must be outside. I open the kitchen door. Then I pour some of her cat food into her bowl, and bang the side with a spoon.

“Toooooby!” I call, but not too loud, as I don’t want to attract the attention of You-Know-Who. I always sing the same thing when it’s time for Toby’s meal: “Grubs up, madam, so come and geeeeeet it!” If she isn’t in the kitchen, she usually runs in lightly on her little cat feet and rubs up against me before tucking into her salty treats.

She doesn’t come though. It’s unlike her. Has she run away? Not possible. Toby loves it here. Doesn’t she?

I get the milk out of the fridge and pour myself a glass, and sit at the kitchen counter, waiting. I pull a newspaper toward me. The front page is the usual depressing mess of people doing horrible things to each other. I’m about to turn it over and start the Sudoku when something tells me to go outside.

I’m not one for believing in sixth senses and all that stuff, but something is wrong. I hop off my stool and go out. It’s a beautiful autumn day. The sky is a light, fresh blue, stippled with grey wisps. We have a garden with an oak tree, and a swing. The garden looks over the orchards. They’re empty now. The staff is on leave.

I look into the branches of the tree. Sometimes Toby hides there when she is in a bad mood. She isn’t there though. I squint harder into the branches. Nothing. Just the hum of insects. I wander over to the flowerbeds. I hear a strong buzzing of insects – flies. A cloud of them are hovering over something in the flowerbed. I go over to see. A wave of nausea flows through me when I see what it is – a dead cat.

Its skin is ripped to shreds, its mouth open in a horrible dead scream. I shriek, then vomit. I puke all over the roses. My eyes prick with tears – a deep and terrible terror grips my body like a vice.

It is Toby.

I turn and run. I sprint inside. My vision is blurry with tears. I hit my leg on the door as I run in and it hurts but I don’t care. As soon as I am inside I cover my eyes with my hands and give out two or three agonised sobs. This is the second-worst thing that has ever happened to me.

Toby. My beautiful Toby. Cute, sweet, playful Toby, who never did anything wrong in her whole life.

I bring my hands down and stare at the wall. I feel my teeth clench. I’m being taken over by anger. Toby didn’t just die. Toby was murdered. She was attacked. Something tore her open, ripping her to pieces. Some animal. Some beast. My eyes narrow in pained hatred as I realise who the only culprit could be. It must have been Priscilla’s psycho dog – Cornelius!

I’m ready to burst with rage. It must be Cornelius. We don’t get predators in our orchards. Sometimes bat-eared foxes come and eat the fallen apples, but they’re not dangerous. Not to Toby. She’s fast. A jackal? We don’t get them in this area. I checked in a wildlife book when I was doing a project on ecosystems about a year ago.

I march into the living room, my fists clenched into two furious balls. Priscilla is sitting on the couch, next to her dog, the devil that killed my Toby. She is painting her nails, with the TV guide on her knee. She looks more like a bimbo than ever. She looks up at me with a bored expression.

“What?” she says, and her lips barely hide a sneer.

“Toby’s dead.” My lips tremor as I say this. I won’t cry though. Not in front of her. Not ever.

She raises an eyebrow. “Who’s Toby?”

“My cat,” I growl. How could she not know we have a cat? Is she blind? I want to run up to her and smack that stupid nail polish out of her fingers.

“There’s a cat in the house? I don’t like those things.” She looks round the room, as if expecting to see one.

“There was one. Your dog killed it.”

She sniggers, as if I have just told a joke. “Please! Cornelius doesn’t do things like that. He’s as tame as a little bunny! Aren’t you my handsome gorgeous?” She leans over and cuddles the brutish thing, and it licks her face. She lets it kiss her on the lips. Disgusting.

“My cat is dead!” I say, and it is hard to stop myself from screaming, or crying.

“You’ve already said that, baby. You don’t need to repeat yourself. I’m not deaf.”

I’m about to say something nasty, something I might regret. I stare at her stupid smile for a second more, before turning around and running upstairs.

I run into my new room and fling myself down on the bed. I grab my pillow and hold it over my face. Then I scream, scream, scream. Hot tears burn my cheeks. I think I might pass out. After about ten minutes of pure rage, I feel tired. My mind clears. I know what I am going to do.

I am going to run away.

***

Tell us: Do you have a relative or perhaps a teacher, like Priscilla, who pretends to be nice, but is actually mean?