Start reading this book:
Chapter One
“Wake up, Sakara, or I swear to God, I will claw out your beady, little, blue eyes and leave behind big, black, empty craters where they used to be,” said a very angry male voice. Considering I was sleeping, I wondered what I could have possibly done to inspire such violence. I also felt a little afraid.
Blinking my eyes open, I lifted my hand to shield them from the bright fluorescent lights that were flooding the room. I felt a small paw with sharp claws batting my hand. Was that a black cat sitting on my chest?
“Let the light in, you idiot,” said the voice again. “You’ve been konked out for hours now. I’m hungry and you promised to take me to the Cheesecake Factory for lunch.”
Where was I? Whose house was this? I looked around at a huge bedroom with garish, bright red accessories and tacky, black satin sheets. This couldn’t possibly be my place! I was instantly repulsed by everything I saw from the glittery, gold tile to the crushed red velvet curtains. I was sitting on a brashly over-decorated, king-sized, four-poster bed covered by tons of silk pillows. A tufted, red patent leather headboard supported my back while a gossamer, sheer, red canopy loomed above me.
Wait. Who was I? I wracked my brain in an effort to recall anything about me or how I’d gotten here but my mind remained a complete blank.
It looked like I had been drinking a root beer float before I passed out as evidenced by the remnants on the silver tray on the nightstand next to the bed. I twisted my head over on the pillow for a closer look at the now melted carton of vanilla ice cream, the empty bottle of IBC root beer and the two remaining maraschino cherries sitting at the bottom of a now empty mug.
A feathery whip whacked me in the head and I sat up immediately. The same black cat that suppressed my breathing earlier by lying on top of my chest was now bouncing up and down on my head; his tail kept swooshing back and forth across my face.
“I want cheesecake! I want cheesecake!” demanded the voice again. “Preferably that new Carmelicious Snickers flavor they just came out with. For you, that is, so I can sample it. I am obviously getting my own slice of Cinnabon cheesecake. Come to think of it, maybe we should get some actual cinnamon rolls from Cinnabon, too. I mean, it is my birthday, after all.”
“Whoa, little kitty,” I said, gently grabbing the big ball of fluffy fur and setting him down gently on the floor. “I’m already hearing this weird voice in my head talking about sugary desserts, let’s not make it any worse.”
“Is that what I am to you now? No more than a weird voice in your head?” he asked, kicking me with his kitty hind legs.
Ouch. What was that cat’s problem? How did he get in here? Did he live here? Was this his home? Who owned this furry little monster? Oh, no! Could he possibly belong to me? Was this my home? Why couldn’t I remember anything? Ohmigosh, was I a robot that just got turned on?
Wait.
Was the cat talking to me? I looked around and didn’t see anyone else. There was also no television or laptop in the room where the sound could’ve been coming from. I still didn’t recognize the room I was in. Was I dreaming? That would make more sense.
Was I on drugs? That could explain it, too.
Or was I dead? Maybe cats could talk to you in the afterlife.
The cat was methodically sharpening his nails on the wooden bedpost next to me, the only improvement in this gaudy eyesore excuse for a bedroom. Why would someone go to such extreme lengths to create a fire engine red-themed bedroom dungeon with flamboyant, glitzy decorations unless this was some sort of reality TV show for tackiest bedroom decor ever?
“Cats can’t talk,” I said more to myself, than the cat. I backed away from the feline, suddenly unsure what else to do.
“Oh, very funny, Sakara. Cut it out. Get your little witch-mobile keys and let’s go to dinner. I want to make sure we get a booth and we’ll have to wait for one if we arrive too late,” he retorted.
I jumped out of the bed, which I still failed to recognize, and walked backwards towards the door at the far corner. I didn’t want to take my eyes off the cat, in case he attacked me again. He didn’t look particularly aggressive so much as annoyed but those claws looked pretty fierce. Once I felt the handle, I pushed it down to open it, jumped behind it and closed the door shut. He could talk but could he open doors, too?
The room was dark. I patted the wall for the light switch and flicked it on. I was inside a huge walk-in closet and not the hallway for the exit like I assumed. Ugh! I couldn’t stay hidden in here forever. Or could I?
“Cheesecake Factory! Cheesecake Factory!” yelled the cat from the other side of the door, scratching at the entrance. This was like a horror movie. I screamed. Maybe someone would hear me and come to my rescue.
The door opened and the cat jumped up on me, knocking me forcibly to the ground. He was pretty strong for such a little guy. I guessed that answered my question as to whether or not he could open doors.
The cat slapped my face with his left paw. “Stop it already! We’ve been over this a million times. I have sensitive little kitty ears with ultrasonic hearing. You can’t turn the TV up past level eight. And you especially can’t scream like a wild banshee.”
“This isn’t really happening. There are no such things as talking cats,” I said, sitting up.
The cat was actually super cute when he wasn’t being so violent. His coat was sleek and shiny and he had a super long tail. He hopped off me and settled down into a sitting stance in front of me, silently licking his paws.
“Sakara, you’re really starting to annoy me, plus I’m famished and you know how I get when I’m hangry,” he said, holding up one of his adorable little paws and baring his pointy kitty talons for display. He reached out to one of the silk dresses hanging up in the closet, snagged his claws into it and slowly swiped them down, leaving five strips of material where there used to be just one.
He looked at me as if he were waiting for me to react but I had no idea whose clothes they were. “Oh, I see. Don’t care about your cheap Gucci summer dress? How about your beloved Prada wrap? In your signature fire engine red color, Sakara?” he asked as he hopped over to a cherry red silk scarf. He used both claws, shredding it into little red ribbons on the ground.
We both perused the damage and stared at each other.
“Why do you keep calling me Sakara?” I asked.
“That’s your name, you moron,” he said. “Sakara Decker.”
Sakara didn’t sound like a normal name. Courtney, Ava, Kirsten, and Lauren were normal names, not Sakara. I looked down at my hands and didn’t recognize them. They were long and thin, tapering to that same shiny red color the cat claimed I loved so much. The manicure featured tiny gold speckles on the tips, which seemed a little gaudy but closely matched the decor I awoke to in the bedroom. I lifted up my hair that hung down past my shoulders. Jet black and stick straight, it was as sleek and smooth as the cat’s hair. Was this my natural hair color? Or did I dye it black? I looked like a walking, matching replica of the hideous bedroom decor.
Popping up, I looked at myself in the full-length mirror. I was Asian? Now the long, black hair made sense. But not the fact that I could only speak English. Not a single Asian word came into my head. Chinese, Japanese, Thai, Korean…the only words coming up were food orders which didn’t really clue me into what type of Asian I was. I had on a body-hugging red satin dress and matching D’Orsay pumps. Maybe someone else did my makeup for me today. This was way too much red and way too much makeup. I immediately reached for a tissue and wiped off the bright red lipstick and the rest of the makeup caked on my face.
The cat let out a loud yowl as he tore up another body-contouring red dress. If he only knew how much I disliked that color. He was actually doing me a favor.
I still had no idea what my name was but I could tell that I was more of a pink pastel, flowery dress kind of a girl—of which there was absolutely none of in this closetl.
We could be stuck here for weeks if this cat decided to tear apart every item in this massive, triple room of clothes. I walked further inside and took a closer look around. There were tons of formal gowns, shoes and matching accessories in the first room. Most of the labels were Prada but it contained a fair share of Burberry, Chanel, Hermes, Armani and Ralph Lauren as well.
The second room was comprised of purses, neatly enclosed behind glass cases, as if they were being exhibited at a store. Maybe the person who lived here re-sold items online. No one person could have possibly worn all the stuff in there, as evidenced by the many price tags still hanging on unworn pieces of clothing.
The third room seemed to be dedicated to the more casual, everyday loungewear. There were tons of yoga pants, capris, jeans and tops. Naturally, matching footwear, accessories and hats applied to this section, too. Unfortunately, the only color options were black or red.
How rich was this mysterious person? I should probably get out of here before they returned and had me arrested for trespassing and allowing a crazy cat to destroy their property.
“Where am I?” I asked, again to no one in particular, certainly not the talking cat whose voice I was clearly fabricating in my own head.
“Inside your closet, you nimwit,” said the cat.
“My closet?” I asked.
“Does it look like I could wear this stuff?” he asked.
I owned all of this? No wonder his catty claws went all kamikaze on everything; he wanted to get a rise out of me. Why didn’t I recognize anything? Why didn’t I know my name? And why did this cat keep insulting me?
“I think I have amnesia,” I replied. That and some sort of brain defect because I could still hear the talking cat. Although, at this point, I was slightly happy someone knew who I was.
“Ohmigosh, you lobotomized yourself. I told you to make the root beer from scratch like the grimoire specified for the forgetting potion,” said the cat, pointing his long black kitty tail over towards root beer float remnants on the night stand.
“Potion?” I asked, eager to hear him elaborate but instead he bounced out of the room and returned with a set of keys. The big diamond-encrusted heart charm hanging from the keychain said: Sakara Knows.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Your witch-mobile keys so we can now go to the Cheesecake Factory,” he said. “I’ll show you where the garage is and tell you how to get there.”
“I just told you I have amnesia and you want to go eat?” I asked.
“Hangry,” he emphasized by shredding some more clothes that I didn’t recognize.
“Amnesia,” I said, pointing to my head.
End of Excerpt
