Letters You Will Never Read

Divorce and Dead Cats

He left. Dad, after all those years defending mom and trying to reconcile our family issues, he left. And lost me. I've only seen him a few times since then, and I think he regrets it all, but it's too late.

When I realized how things were, I was mad. My mom had no idea what was in store for her.

The world became a demented playground of sorts. Living things were in peril, and there were plenty of dangerous objects around the house. First to go were houseplants. She didn't love them especially, but she liked the look of them, and so I smiled as I dumped salt into the torn-up roots and covered the evidence in peat moss.

I broke things. Everything. It was better if I wasn't caught; she'd be less likely to stop me from other destructive things. So I set up traps, chain reactions, best yet if she set them off herself. She couldn't blame me for her own clumsiness. I had picked up a lot of pranks from listening to conversations at school, but I had also come up with my own. I hid things that belonged to her, or threw them away. I emptied the toothpaste and filled the tube with air. I left milk to sour in the sun, unscrewed lightbulbs halfway so they flickered, and while mom was at work I went into her room and slowly began picking at the wallpaper, adding a layer of dust to her furniture; small things that were hardly noticeable till too late. I went about my grim duty with such determination that not a day went by that something didn't disappoint her.

She was frustrated; suddenly she was old, forgetful, clumsy. Stress made her even more of a monster. But her emotions took their sweet time becoming fearful (that would come).

She didn't suspect me for a long while. I got better at finding opportunities. I began growing poisonous mold in the bathroom behind the toilet after stealing a sample from a tented house down the street, and it went unchecked for several months. That was a big part of the reason we moved... the first time.

It was the neighbor's cat. It would have been so much better if it was hers, but I only had so many available resources.

I was washing a knife in the sink, listening to the radio which was turned all the way up to annoy her. I believe it was a Beatles song, Yellow Submarine, because the lyrics still remind me of dead cats for some reason.

Because of the music, I didn't hear the scream. Mom stormed in and saw me with the knife, and her paranoid mind suddenly slammed into the hugest realization of the decade. "You..." was all she said. Then, staring at the knife, she backed out and called the police.

They couldn't prove her right. And I gave up trying to convince them mom was crazy; she had, after all, found a bloody mess of cat on her porch. Whatever had happened, it prompted another move, and she hasn't trusted me since. Maybe she thinks I'll cut her throat in her sleep... stupid woman. I have so many better options...

I should be sorry I am telling you all this. You would probably think I am a horrible person, but you don't know her.