Imagine, if you will, a cat in a box.

No, this isn’t about Schrodinger’s Cat. I’m not trying to make any points about the nature of quantum physics. I just like the metaphor. It might not be perfect, but please, try to understand.

I put a cat into a box. The box is sound proof, air tight, blah blah blah. The details aren’t super important, just the idea that nothing from the outside can interact with the inside of the box as long as the lid is closed.

Logically, the cat will probably suffocate or starve to death. You’ll never be able to know until you check, but the longer time passes, the more likely it is that the cat inside has perished.

It only makes sense, after all. It’s just a hollow cube, what more could a cat possibly get up to inside?

Suppose I put a cat into a box, and then tell you what happened to it inside. It’s not just a box, there’s an entire universe inside! The cat lives a full and happy life, blissfully unaware of the confines of its reality.

Or perhaps the cat doesn’t starve to death, but is instead murdered by a roaming pack of tiny gremlins that were hiding inside the box.

You’d call me a liar, right? Or perhaps say that I’m criminally insane. Such things aren’t possible, after all. But, closed off in that box, hidden from observation, isn’t there just the slightest chance that they are? An infinitesimally small chance that a journey of magic and mayhem beyond your comprehension has been experienced by this lucky feline.

Suppose I tell you a story. A story of what happens to the cat inside the box, a tale of love and loss, of overcoming odds and succumbing to despair. A story with highs and lows. You weep as the cat weeps, your blood pumps along with theirs as the climax builds, and you are left stunned by the ultimate ending that wraps everything up perfectly.

But the box is still sitting there, unopened. You could check. You’d probably just find a dead cat, with no evidence that any word of my story was in the slightest bit true.

But for at least a moment, wasn’t it? The truth of the story, the heart of the narrative resonated within you as you rooted for the cat to overcome their obstacles. The story made you feel, made you want it to be true. For just a second, that infinitesimal chance of this being reality for the cat inside the box became one-hundred percent in your eyes.

I could keep doing this, spinning new tales of heroism and romance. Each spin becoming a new twist, a new reality, a new possibility, a new truth. A number of stories to rival the number of stars in the sky, each narrative painting the cosmos anew.

Would you still want to check? If you pry open that lid and are met by the stench of dead cat, all the stars in the sky would crumble to dust, and only a cruel and boring reality would be left behind.

What if you couldn’t check? What if the box was somehow removed from your grasp, by time or by space? Would you hold my words in a little higher weight? Would you rate some stories as being more plausible than others? With a sufficient enough argument, would you consider some of the stories truth?

…But this is all a load of rubbish, isn’t it? Even though the words of an author can be considered that of a god, I can not exceed my own limits. Infinity is not within my grasp. I’m probably not even that good of a writer. If I told you the story of the cat in the box, I’m sure the best I would get is “It was pretty decent.”

There’s a reason I’m telling you all of this. This convoluted metaphor has gotten a little off track. You, whoever you are, whoever has found this message that I cast into the heartless sea, by some miracle my words have reached you.

These words are probably not enough to open the lid on the box, but they are my heart. Human hearts are little different than a catbox. We cloak ourselves in personas and narratives and lies, and very rarely do we open the box to show someone else what's inside.

I think most people refer to this as “love.”

I am not a person who deserves love, so instead, I will do my best to convey myself to you, oh fateful stranger.

You may have heard of a certain incident by now. I’m sure it has made quite the news story. How could it not, when so many people are dead? When all the evidence of what happened to them was destroyed in such a grand and explosive fashion?

Perhaps it is called a massacre. Or an accident. A great mystery. I honestly do not know what the world will think of this incident, of those that no longer remain in this world, their stories never told. Perhaps you don’t know of it at all, and I’m wasting my time.

I knew them. All of them. They were family. Friends. Coworkers. I loved some of them. I despised others. They were human beings, through and through. Some were capable of great kindness, others of extraordinary cruelty.

They’re all dead now, gone forever. Sealed in a unopenable catbox, lost to the ashes of time. I’m sure the media will come up with their own stories of what happened on that fateful day, to those people. Each story, another star in the sky, a possibility, a fracture of reality. If enough people believe in one story in particular, it will become the accepted version of events.

Even now, as I sit here writing these words, only one thing is certain.

It’s all my fault.

These words of mine are a confession. All of those people are dead because of my actions.

I hated them. I wanted them all to die.

I hated myself.

Some were cruel to me. They kicked me around, used me as a dumping ground for their own issues. I wanted them to feel the suffering they inflicted on others.

Some were kind to me, but it turned out their kindness was filled with sharp barbs, their generosity only a means to fulfill their own selfish desires.

There were a few… I loved them. Their feelings were pure, but my love was poison. I was not the person they thought I was. I was an ugly, wretched creature. I did not deserve love, but I yearned for it anyway. I reached for the sun and my wings burned away. I could not bear to open up the catbox inside my heart, because I knew they would be horrified by what they found there.

I didn’t believe I could reach a happy ending.

In life, I was powerless. But there was one realm where I had unlimited power.

You’re reading it right now.

Even now, I could be lying, right? This entire message could just be a complete work of fiction. Every raw bit of myself that I pour onto these pages could be cold and calculated work of an author.

It was with that power I found my solace. I wrote stories in which I had power. Power to crush those I hated. Power to twist up those who thought they were kind to me in their own lies. The power to be a kind of person who was actually worthy of love.

I wrote countless tales—utter pieces of dreck, most likely, but each was a part of me, an elaborate revenge fantasy.

It was a madness that consumed me. Only in my stories could I be someone. Reality was worthless to me. I was ready to die.

But I was too much of a coward to pull the trigger.

Not alone.

Born in that black hole of despair was the spark of an idea, to make my stories into reality. To erase all evidence of the real world, so that only my stories remained. I planned it all out, prepared everything I would need, set everything up in advance, carefully plotted every move.

It would be perfect. I would have power, and they would all suffer and die.

When the day finally came, I was giddy with mad excitement. I was ready to end it all, to paint my story, my legacy in the blood of those I felt had wronged me.

I challenged them to play my game.

And then everything went wrong.

I underestimated the selfishness and cruelty of them, especially when they were backed into a corner. They turned on each other faster than I could blink, or raise a gun.

In truth, I don’t know exactly what happened. I never fired a shot. I couldn’t bring myself to kill another human being.

But I wanted to. I was ready to. And I provided the means, the motive, the weapons for the crime to occur, and the explosives that wiped all evidence of wrongdoing off the face of the earth.

Through cruel irony, and the sacrifice of someone who loved me, someone who I did not deserve, only I live. Only I can tell this tale and pry the lid off the catbox.

Even now as I sit here, writing these words, prepared to throw them to wherever fate takes them, a loaded gun sits on my table. I hope I can find the courage to do what I should have done before.

If I had just been able to die alone, they would all still be alive right now.

To whomever finds this letter…

The catbox is in your hands, now. I do not know what is spoken of this incident in the future. I do not know what stories are told of what happened on that day. But I suspect they are far grander than the truth.

Even my confession is pretty vague on the details. It doesn’t make for a very compelling narrative. These events of that day, and the people the happened to. They all meant something to me, for good or for bad. But to you they are but nameless strangers. There is nothing to differentiate them from the countless tales of tragedy that happen across the world daily that you have no knowledge of.

But a good story about what happened inside that box could make you care. Give the story a protagonist, a hero to relate to. Give it a dastardly villain, a scheme to stop. Tell a tale of hope and struggles. Even though you know it would end in tragedy, you would get caught up in the narrative all the same.

It would be a better story than mine.

I don’t have much in the way of last wishes. My regrets cannot be settled. All that’s left is you.

I’m not sure what exactly you’re supposed to take from this. I’d like to think that, whoever you are, that you can understand me a little. That my words had some kind of impact on someone that didn’t result in senseless destruction.

I’m reaching the end of this message, soon. Too much longer, and I won’t be able to stuff all this paper into the bottle. I should have written smaller, but that would be hard on you, wouldn’t it?

It’s funny to think that each word I write is just a countdown until the moment I die. Perhaps I’m rambling on a little bit more to delay my ultimate fate.

By the time you read this, it will be far too late to save me. My sins blacken the earth wherever I step, and I do not deserve to partake of this world any longer. All I can hope is that I have the courage to do what needs to be done.

But perhaps I don’t. Perhaps I will wallow in cowardice once more, and run away from my just desserts, fleeing, unable to face my crimes. That I should live on despite all I’ve done seems wretched and inconceivable.

But perhaps I could live. I could find a life. I could find forgiveness from others, and from myself. I could meet people who weren't cruel, and who were genuinely kind. I could write stories that bring happiness instead of pain. I could learn to love myself, which I could then use to build genuine love with others.

Even though such a story seems ludicrous, that possibility is not zero.

Please, whoever you are, tell me.

Is the cat in the box alive or dead?