Think about that. You live in this tiny, cramped glass bowl where you can see out and everyone can see in. You piss in the same filthy water where you eat. If the goddamned kids remember to feed you. You die from the poison of your own excretions because, Lord knows those kids are too lazy to change your fucking water unless you yell at them. Life in a little glass bubble looking out, everyone else looking in. Everyone else seeing how weak you are. How pathetic. How vulnerable. You can see the entire world around you, and can't move more than six inches toward it. The world doesn't exist.
So why do you make for the center of the bowl every time one of those fucking cats comes around? Something had to give. Something had to shatter. The wife is screaming. She doesn't understand. How could she? How could anyone understand but you? Something had to shatter you out of that little glass bubble that was your entire fucking world. You wouldn't have done it yourself. All you had to do was stay by the side, right where one of those cats would get you, but you never did. You never could. You flirted with the idea, but then, in that last horrible moment, millions of years of evolution kicked in, and your fucking primieval survival instincts kick in. You move to the center. You survive another day. Another day of nothing. I want you to know, for the record, that it was your own damned fault.
I don't feel sorry for you. You could have been stronger. Been a man. You could have forced yourself to stay by the side of the bowl, but no! You didn't even have to let yourself get captured in the first place. When that girl at the aquarium with the not-big-enough tits came to scoop you out of the great big tank with the filter, the plants, the little castle, and the catfish that sucked up all the shit, you could have dodged it. You could have swam. You could have dived into the little castle. I'm not sorry for you because you just sat there bobbing in the water when all the other fish were smart enough to run. It's your own fucking fault. I'm not sorry for you.
The wife is still screaming. The kids are still crying. The cats are coming out. They saw you flopping around on the ground, trying to kick yourself back into water that doesn't exist. They saw you twitching. They smelled your fear. You disgust me. Maybe you get it now? You've stopped moving. Your mouth opens and closes out of reflex, but you know the inevitable is at hand. Something had to shatter, and now there's no way back in. No one's going to save you. No one's even paying attention to you. Nobody cares. There are actual human beings to care about, for fucks sake! Human beings with actual wants and needs. Human beings who need to play video games, watch TV, breed day lilies with their friends. Nobody cares that you need to eat. Nobody cares that you sit there all day watching the world. Nobody cares that you need to breathe. There are actual human beings screaming and crying and bleeding, living their own complete lives where they can walk and touch and not just sit and watch, actual human beings with actual lives to lead. Physical people who aren't just the occasional object of entertainment. Or curiosity. Or disgust. No one cares about you.
Except the cats. The fucking cats have been the only honest ones in this whole little game. Cats who look at you like they hate you. Cats who are pissed at the world, and piss on everything, because the goddamned kids won't clean their fucking litter boxes. The cats want to eat you. Or maybe toy with you. Play with you. Have some fun. Watch you die. Sadistic little fuckers, I know, but at least the cats have been honest. The cats don't pretend to love you. The cats don't come up with little affectations of caring, and then just forget that you're there. Just so you know, the cats have lost interest now that you've stopped moving. Something had to shatter. I wasn't sorry for you. You disgusted me. I did it for you because you were too weak to do it yourself.
Quiet. The wife has stopped screaming. The kids have stopped crying. They've left. You're not even trying to breathe. Even the little puddle of water has sunk into the rug. A stain. With broken glass. With blood. With a dead fish. A way out. Something had to shatter. Being flushed down the toilet is better than living forever in that damned bowl. I want you to know, for the record, that I did it. I want you to know, for the record, that I envy you.