There's a superstition that surrounds the cat who bears black fur.
That superstition is, if it crosses your path, misfortune and death will be upon you and your family.
That is the superstition that surrounds the cat who bears black fur.
And that is the curse humanity has damned it with.
Because the color of its skin defines the person within.
It defines the cat as something bad, something vicious, something dangerous, something that is a blemish in this perfect, whitewashed society.
Before me, I find three animals.
An eagle.
A panda.
And a black cat.
The black cat lays helpless on the ground, pinned by the talons of the big, mighty eagle whose claws grip the neck of the cat to the point of its suffocation. The cat yowls desperately, clawing at the talons of the mighty eagle who only pins it down harder, its head rising up in pride.
"I can't breathe," the black cat yowls in a human tone. "I can't breathe, I can't breathe!"
But the big, mighty eagle just grips harder, its ears deaf to the cries of the black cat.
"I can't breathe," the black cat cries. "I can't breathe, I can't breathe!"
There are countless of animals surrounding me, paws, claws, fingers, and hands all gripping their phones to capture such a moment. Many of them scream and yell and shout and wail, demanding the cat be released by the eagle.
Let go of him, they cry.
You're suffocating him, they shout.
You're killing him, they scream.
And yet the eagle, whose hearing is better than the animals around it, remains deaf to their cries.
As the outcry of the animals intensifies, a panda crawls before the group, its black and white colors, both a symbol of diversity, now becoming the blockage between the protesting animals and the black cat's murder scene.
Like a typical panda who sits and does nothing but eat and sleep all day, this animal sits on the asphalt road before the other animals, its big stature turned back at the murder of an innocent black cat. It just sits there, staying silent, staying neutral. It does nothing but sit and take the oppressor's side, becoming an oppressor, itself.
"I can't breathe," the black cat chokes, continuing its cry for help.
But no one helps it.
In the end, the black cat dies.
Like many other black cats in this nation—this world—it dies an unlawful death.
Just because its color brings misfortune, danger, and death.
Just because the cat was black.
But of course, the eagle gets away with murder.
Because the eagle is this country's pride and joy.
And of course, the panda gets away as being the accomplice.
Because it didn't worsen nor help the situation, therefore it is innocent.
Of course, the one who has to pay the heavy price is the black cat.
Only because the color of its skin defines it to be as something that has been handed down in this society by generations, its skin being its curse to live a life of hatred, inequality, suspicion, and death.
This incident caused an uproar later on, the whole country in protest as they defend the lives of the black cats who have died and the black cats who are yet to be killed.
To all the lives of the black cats out there, on behalf of the animals who do care, on behalf of those with a voice but can't speak, on behalf of those who turn a blind eye, on behalf of those who have, still, and will always love and support you...
I'm sorry.
But I will not apologize on behalf of the oppressors, on behalf of those who abused you, misused you, mistreated you, and underestimated you. I will not apologize on their behalf.
They shall and will apologize for themselves.
And if they don't, then that comes to show the true nature of this so-called strong, inspiring, and influential society we live in.
To all the black cats out there, I am so sorry.
I am so sorry that the color of your skin has society define you as someone different within.
To all the black cats out there...
I am truly sorry.
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I later learned that the black cat had a name.
His name was George.
And he died because he was black.
YOU ARE READING
A Prose With No Direction
SpiritualA prose with no direction. A mind with no guidance. A human without a purpose. That is the kind of story I hate to be. That is the kind of story I, unfortunately, am.
