Essay 1: Retractable claws

It was an experimental prison program.
For the most hardened criminals doing life.

Labelled as the most dangerous of them, #201A, was given a rescue cat to take care of.

#201A was a bit of a feline himself. Feral. Kept to himself. Never spoke. Walked with such beautiful grace that it almost seemed wrong. Eyes expressionless, pupils perpetually dilated. Some attributed it to sneaked-in drugs. Common sense, to the perpetual gloom of the sentence that had to have permeated his soul.

When handed the cat, along with instructions on why and how he should care for it, he reached out, took the cat, and padded away.

The guard stared, shrugged, and forgot about it. He had neither the time nor the inclination to understand prisoners or cat-experiments. His wife’s promise of a steak dinner, now that was something that deserved his interest.

#201A always carried the cat with him since then. No matter where he went or what he did. Others couldn’t help noticing how they resembled each other. The same indifference. The same expressionless-ness. The same intense apathy even towards each other.

Except for the stroking.

Night and day and day and night. A mechanical rough open-handed stroking from the cat’s forehead to the rump. If the cat purred, no one dared be near enough to hear it. Both expressions belied the action. Both stared ahead. The stroking continued. The cat never tried to get away. #201A never seemed aware he was even doing it.

Days. Weeks. Months. Years.

Watching, waiting, several inmates went insane or hung themselves. The cat-experiment was called off.

The guard went to take the cat away from him. The stroking continued. The guard could not pry the cat away. #201A’s nails dug deeper as he stroked on as the guard pulled. He drew blood. The cat was stroked to shreds. It did not murmur even as its eyes glazed over.

The guard turned and ran without looking back.