An Unfinished Letter
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Dear Virginia.

I accepted that you were not here a long time ago, yet I write this letter to you.

I started drinking more after you left, as your vacancy taught me how to drink. I've been a good student so far, so I think I could learn tolerance from now on. Well, this was what I always promised you.

However, the events a few weeks prior made me drink again. It feels like a demon causing problems so that I cannot live without booze. Alcohol was the only relief from the terror that kept pressing down on me. Only now, after it was somewhat relieved, I could pick up my quill and paper.

It was dawn when I stumbled out of the pub, intoxicated. While I sighed in sadness, I saw a dot shining in the darkness.: a cat's eye. The reason that it was one, not two, was because the cat only had one eye. The reason it shined so brightly against the darkness was that it was a black cat.

Someone would say it is an ordinary cat, but I froze as I saw it. My books would have caused terror to some, but mine was far greater than those. The despair after breathing in your last breath, that was the amount of terror that spread from my neck to my toes.

It looked the same as 'the' black cat I pictured while writing - its bare legs, its voice that sounds like it came from the abyss… And on top of all that, its cold, emerald eyes - eyes that pierce through one's hideous human nature. One difference is that the real one's belly was bigger.

What should a writer do if his creation comes to life? Should he be happy? Maybe he should. However, my creation was that of terror. Fulfilling its purpose, the cat overwhelmed me with terror. I did not stumble anymore, sober from the fear that led me home. It was at my porch that I realized the cat followed me home.

You liked cats before you passed away; it was your cat that stayed by your side with me at your final moment. Moreover, I could not just abandon a pregnant cat. I begrudgingly let her in. In retrospect, doing that was not a good choice, but neither was it the greatest mistake of my life.

It was terror after terror for a few weeks since I let her in. That gazing eye that stared into me next to the fireplace; felt as it was pulling something up from deep inside me. One time, I grabbed my liquor glass too hard and almost broke it while I saw it in her eye.

The fact that she bore children made it more terrifying. If the cat is indeed something out of my book, then 'the' cat would be the cat that took all human evil inside it. What insight would her litter be born with from her mother's experience? Her belly looked like it scratched all the human indignities with its filthy claws and gathered it inside its womb.

And yesterday, the babies were born. Sadly, the mother died after giving birth, bone-skinny in the shape of 'the cat in my head. She gave me endless terror, but kittens were adorable nevertheless. However, I didn't know how long they'd survive. How can a drunkard like me keep one grown-up cat, let alone a bunch of kittens?

But all those worries went to vain. Every cat, except one, was born disabled. Some didn't have ears. Some had missing eyes. Some lacked tongues, legs, or tails. The only one without lacking parts couldn't open its eyes. Human evil must have been too much for them to bear. The thought of it terrified me.

So their lives were short, too short to remember what was their life. Only one kitten survived and stayed by me as I buried the rest, so calmly, in front of its own sibling's death. It grew fast, too. I'm no biologist, but I know that it grew fluffy hair and can walk properly. If the others show the destructive nature of human evil, this one shows hope of growth from the very same evil.

It is looking at my quill, sitting on the desk, as if it can read, following my fingers. Now it puts its paw on its jaw like it is thinking. It wouldn't be strange if it suddenly talked. It opens its mouth. Maybe it's yawning. Then it tal…


Thump.

He collapsed. The one-closed-eye cat took a while to understand that a talking cat was too much of a shock for most people.

The letter was unfinished, but for the cat, it was better for the human not to know. It folded the letter carefully, dipped its claw in the ink bottle, and wrote the man's name.

It walked to the fireplace with the letter in its mouth. It felt drowsy as if it was still in its mother's womb, but there was no time to succumb to it.

The cat threw the letter in the fire. It started to crackle, then it turned into a new, fiercely burning fire.

This was the first and last favour that it gave to the man who kept its mother.

The wind greeted the cat outside. The weather was crisp, possibly cold, perfect for testing out the thought it received before it came out.

Oh my, it's colder than I thought.

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