Jag in a Box

Me against this dark black metal box. I’m getting out no matter what I have to do. Clawing at the walls, I injure my claw. They not only trapped me using bait (a live pig who seemed cornered in this same box, but it was an illusion), they drugged me too. Everything went blurry—I was enclosed in this hellish device. 

Now I open my eyes, but it’s all black. I strike the walls, hearing the echoes of my own strikes against the metal. I strike again, even harder, despite the throbbing torment in my torn-claw paw each time I do so.

I am suffering, my claw torn and bleeding. I am torn too, between agony and fury.

I never knew fear—but now I know. I fear not death. I fear this. I am trapped and cannot see. No sun, no blue sky; no rain, no wind against my sleek skin—fear pertains to entrapment, not death.

Life is death, and death is life to me; because, deep down, jaguars like to hunt. I killed the Orinoco crocodile. I ate him and it brought me life. 

In the whole world, all I want is OUT! 

Feeling of being carried away somewhere, rumbling, bumping along. Bumping against the hot metal box, still bleeding. Scalded, suffocating air with burning metal against my skin, I am jostled over rough places. The box skips now and again as if it struck something far below (it forces my body to skip too).  

I wish I were dead: I should be so lucky. Life and death are both freedom to me, both alike.

Now I feel as if I’m being lowered down, though still inside this confined, sweltering metal prison, lowered into a pit . . . feeling sick, nauseated.

A door slides open and I burst out. Eureka! Daylight! Blue sky! Air!

But now there’s wire all around; I feel confused, and I am trapped in a small space.

Still, I can see now, so I will escape. 

After a few days, they blast some kind of sharp weapon into my side. It strikes hard and with pain; soon I black out. 

When I wake up, I am very dizzy, woozy. I hate these drugs they force into my body. “Hate” means death is better than this. My torn claw is gone, but I am not bleeding. My body was made better, but my soul is shredded by these things, like when hyena attack all at once. Nothing can put their prey back together again.

Over time, I grow a new claw.

Now I work on escaping 24/7. Every time I don’t succeed, it’s practice. I am leaving. 

How could you have trapped me when I was clearly free?! Do you not know I crush caimans’ skulls, usually after swimming upstream? Or what do you think you have actually caught? My name means “he who kills with one leap.” You do not know what you are trying to contain. I will again stalk prey under a clear blue sky and not be stopped by mere men.

I feel the call of freedom in my veins: Puh-poon-dra! Puh-poon-dra! —A drum, a river gushing inside of me, wanting to come out.

I never loved an easy kill, when the animals come to the river to drink, unawares. Instead I love the caimans and crocodiles. Black caimans and Orinoco crocodiles are the only predators of my kind. They eat jaguars (but not me). How I love those battles! Those wins mean something.

Inside a cage, I am getting used to whatever scraps they give me. I’m becoming accepting. (I think I’m getting fat.) Still, I am not some tame house cat, as they wish.

I will persist in my mind even if I must accept scraps while doing so.

But I need challenges, not scraps.

A war drum is beating in my veins: Puh-poon-dra! Free-dom! Puh-poon-dra! I climb the wire walls and ceiling every night looking for a weakness when I cannot smell the night guard approaching. Whenever he comes, I drop.

I smell other smells besides him. I smell alpacas nearby. I smell foxes. And emus. They are mine. I claim them. I will find you. I will stalk and overtake prey again, beginning with you.

Yes, I have killed—their life went for mine, that I might live. Is it different to kill animals than plants? Either way, something else dies that you might live instead.

_________________

A lockdown was the trap that baited me into this strongbox. Suddenly nobody could work because of the lockdown. I became poor and moved where I could at least work, if only piecemeal as a substitute teacher.

I could afford an apartment that was mold infested, but it was all I could afford. The smell is nauseating and I have allergy symptoms.

Even though the lockdowns are over, I still find myself in this place so different from the thriving prosperity I moved here from. I am still shut in and shut down, at the mercy of employment that is piecemeal and unpredictable, clawing at these walls with my pen.

I know that I and everything I have, reeks of mold. I continue paying rent with the little bit of money I make. My vibrancy is affected. I feel tired and weak. I’m embarrassed to smell like mold and have health issues off and on.

Everyone sees me in this cage . . . but I need challenges, not scraps—so what can they do? 

Have I eaten too many piecemeal scraps and gotten used to this? Or, rather, just lain still too long and need to rise, slay and eat again; —I know sometimes you’ve got to break something to make something. 

Why is this cage still holding me?

Let me find a weak spot in this entrapment—don’t I hear freedom softly murmuring like a brook to my soul: hooshashoosh! Hoosh!

Give me challenges, not scraps. 

Clearly now, I hear freedom pulsing in my veins. “Puh-poon-dra! Puh-poon-dra! I will get out of here; I will live again!”

Show me what must die so I can live, what I must break through, tooth and claw (for I know sometimes you’ve got to break something to make something). What are the invisible chains binding me?

I was knocked down by the lockdown. Now I need to get my fight back. 

Let me find the weak spot in this entrapment, for I feel freedom calling me out with a war drum beating in my veins: Puh-poon-dra! Puh-poon-dra!

I will not remain trapped. There is nothing for me here—so something’s got to break. 

I dedicate myself to finding an escape, a way to get my life back. I begin using energy that had lain dormant for three years (since the year of lockdowns when I moved). Sometimes I stagger, but I find a small stream of energy beginning to flow again, a trickle.

I find a position teaching Business English online. I begin writing a novel. It’s not easy to work at home because of the smell of mold. But it’s the weakness of this entrapment and I know it.

My fire returns--and, with it, a fiery stream of steady energy, insisting I will win.

———————————————

NEWS ARTICLE:

McKay, Tom. “Jaguar Escapes New Orleans Zoo Enclosure: Kills At Least Seven Other Animals.” Gizmodo, July 15, 2018. Accessed 9 September 2024.

Jaguar Escapes New Orleans Zoo Enclosure, Kills At Least Seven Other Animals

A three-year-old male jaguar named Valerio escaped its enclosure at New Orleans’ Audubon Zoo on Saturday . . . it managed to maul and kill five alpacas, an emu, and a fox, CNN reported. 

According to CNN, zoo staff reported seeing Valerio outside his enclosure at around 7am local time . . . .

According to the Times-Picayune, a preliminary investigation found evidence that Valerio’s enclosure had a “compromised” roof and that the incident was not the result of keeper error, though a full investigation is pending.

__________________

Now I break free and kill my prey, whatever must die . . . .  

I break my habits and mindsets, tooth and claw. I kill my alpacas.

I focus on my goal of escape and getting my happy life back.

I continue teaching Business English online. I finish my novel. I take a financial risk to attend a conference.

I will win.

Because I live on challenges, not scraps.