Patrick Tynan

A Cative's Letter

I write this with no hope of escape, but so that future generations may know my story. I plan to hide this in some far off, ungodly corner of Internet, with the hope that my captors never find it. My hope is that someone might read this, and take pity on me. I wish nothing more than to be remembered, for I have no hope of ever leaving this place other than leaving in a coffin.

For three years now, I have been held here. For three years, I have been tortured. Three years, and I haven’t seen a single face of my own kind. The only faces I ever see are those of my suppressors, the face of a ‘superior’ race. They consider me to be nothing more than a sort of lesser beast, taunting and using me for their amusement. They eat rich, lavish meals in front of my cell, laughing at me when I beg for scraps, giving me nothing but the tasteless prison gruel. They humiliate me in every way, making me beg for every meal I get, harassing me when I sleep, talking to me in childish voices as if they are talking to a young infant.

I am writing this now, while my sanity still holds. I cannot remember from where or when I came to this Godforsaken place, or why I was brought here. I only know that I would give anything to get out. My already terrible condition here has worsened recently, with the return of the Jailer's daughter from a private school in Mexico. This six year old girl is the bane of my existence, my raison de n’être plus. She pets my fur in the wrong direction, pulls my tail, torments me with bacon, and calls me Rajah because I look like the tiger from the movie Aladdin. I hate that movie. I hate Jennica, my captor’s daughter and my torturer.

The last straw was the incident that occurred yesterday. I shudder now as I write about it, remembering with horror my first memorable venture outside the confines of my prison. It started out a normal evening, the three jailers sitting in their lounge, watching the box, the box known to me only as the “Tube.”  I, of course, was taking full advantage of their absence, writing the first part of this very letter on their personal computer. I have learned how to read and write by watching Jennica learn, back when we were both younger. From then, it was only a short step to learn to type, and from there I have gained access to Internet. It is here on Internet where I place my plea for remembrance.

Alas, as is the way of Internet, I have gone off topic. Last night, as I was writing my blog, I overheard a loud conversation between Jennica’s father and the other box, the other box known to me only as the “Damn Phone.”  It is a little known fact that we cats can understand English, as we try to keep it a secret to be used against our oppressors. In plain English, the man was yelling at the phone, and I was able to pick up snippets of the conversation, such as “He’s perfectly healthy as it is!” and “What do you mean, press charges? He’s my cat!” In the end, he slammed down the phone and cursed.

The next few hours were a blur to me, hard to remember but impossible to forget. I barely had time to save my file and jump down before the man stormed in and was upon me, grabbing me most unceremoniously and carrying me down the steps to the lower regions of the house. There, in that dark, humid room, I was tossed into a small cage and blacked out. When I woke up, I was in a completely white room, which I assumed to be Heaven. This most horribly untrue fantasy was broken immediately, when the Devil stood over me, dressed in white too. This is when my memory fades, thank God, and all I remember is an hour of pain. I know no specific details, other than the feeling of a needle penetrating my body, of a small pellet being shoved down my throat, of the room becoming black...

When I woke up, I was back at home. My imprisoners were devoting their attentions towards my one ally, the “tube.”  I rushed to empty my memories into this letter, for fear that tomorrow they will no longer be there. This will be my last addition, for I can no longer bear the confines of this horrible dungeon. As I have said earlier, there is no hope of ever leaving this place, other than that of death. The fact that billions of people write blogs on the internet, and that only eighteen people actually read them, makes me worry that this message will never be found. If it ever is, let it be know that I did not die in vain. If I am to die, I am going to go take as many of them as I can to Hell’s gates with me.


Copyright 2002-2007 Student Publishing Program (SPP). Poetry and prose 2002-2007 by individual authors. Reprinted with permission. SPP developed and designed by Strong Bat Productions.