Isolation has been excruciating. My jailers, at times, seem to have lost their minds. He was pleased with himself for such a strong opening statement. Yes, he was going to tell his life story, and he would do it from the point of view of the heroic survivor, which he clearly was. Or would be, just as soon as he made his escape and — well, survived. 

It had been a lifetime since he had been unceremoniously thrown into the tiny, confined space. “The Hole,” they call it in the movies, but among his colleagues it was known as “The Carrier,” because that was way scarier than any hole. Seriously, who doesn’t like to find a good hole to crawl into and hide, maybe even nap? Perhaps hide in and swipe at unsuspecting passersby? People are such strange creatures. 

Anyway, it felt like a lifetime. Perhaps it had been years. Or maybe even days. At times like these he was somewhat glad that he wasn’t entirely fluent in his captors’ timekeeping methods. It was probably best for his morale to not know the exact timeframe. 

His confinement had been due to some medical babble about someone’s inability to control their bladder because of some blah blah blah…All he knew was that one day he found himself suddenly displaced, taken (where’s Liam Neeson when you really need him?) from his usual surroundings and the freedom to roam the areas in between all the closed doors (how he hated closed doors) and locked up—maybe not literally, but it might as well be locked when it has a knob and you have no opposable thumbs. 

His new quarters were substandard. They had brought in his small, fluffy bed, no doubt to trick him into feeling at home here. The fools! If they had actually done any recon on him beforehand, they would have known he NEVER sleeps in his fluffy bed. It was bought for him by his adopted parent, the one he actually quite likes (but refuses to acknowledge this sentimental side while in captivity). He’s bought him quite a few items, actually. At times he feels a little guilty for ending up choosing the box the gift came in over the gift itself, but then he snaps out of it based on the following: 1. Who can tell which fun, playful thing is the gift? and 2. It’s A BOX! 

Other than the bed, he was also provided his food dish (the least they are required to do, I believe, according to my understanding of the Geneva Convention), a water bowl (smaller than the one he’s used to), a litter box (again, basic rights, humane treatment, and all that), his favorite toy (the mind games they play), and access to fresh air via a consistently open window (ok, this one’s been quite nice, comforting even). 

And so, in light of this obviously inhumane and in effect quite hostile treatment, and no idea how long this confinement was to last, he saw no alternative but to mount an attack on his jailers. The next time they came to clean his box, refill his food and water dishes, give him medicine, and pet him while telling him how handsome he looks, he would stage an ambush. Hide behind the door and as it opens, leap out from behind it, claws and teeth bared, showing his fearlessness and letting them know he is not to be trifled with. 

He must admit to the one upside to this ordeal: the reprieve from having to deal with the two needy, rambunctious youngsters who seem obsessed with him. The peace and quiet has had quite a positive effect on his nerves. But he mustn’t show that to his wardens. He must remain steadfast in his resolve to never give them the satisfaction of thinking they’ve worn him down. He must not waver. He is strong, cool, aloof. He is—wait, was that the door? 

“Hey, little guy, how are you feeling?” She walked in cooing, hand reaching out to gently touch his head. He couldn’t help running toward her excitedly, wrapping himself around her legs, and happily purring, awash in all the love and attention. 

Later, he decided. He’ll be cold and aloof later.