I had always been a coward.

My mother once told me, when I was born, the doctors joked it was so hard to take me out because I held on so tight in fear of leaving.

May have not of been too far from the truth.

When I was a baby, I refused to go in my high chair because it was too high. When I learned to walk, I refused to continue walking for several more years because I was afraid of moving too fast. In preschool the blocks scared me because they were so loud when they were knocked down.

This process continued well into high school where bullies, friends, and even young girls always pulled off the 'two for flinching' rule on me.

I am telling you all this now so as to make you understand why I am so terrified of this postcard I received about a week ago. It is locked away inside a desk drawer as I am too afraid of what the consequences would be if I tore it up or burned it.

"Oh, what's so bad about some dumb old post card?" You might be thinking right now. Well, I'll tell you. This is not some ordinary post card. This post card was written and signed by my dead cat, Mr. Tinklebottom.

Stop laughing! I am being completely and utterly serious with you...and about the name...it was some dumb name my little sister gave it when it peed itself upon first being brought into our home all those years ago. Yes, my parents tried to give it a more reasonable name such as Whisker or Jezebel or something even remotely sensible, but my sister would always whisper that one name to the cat every night until it was all he would ever answer to. You can imagine how quickly it became less of a family pet and more of an 'only your naïve sister is shameless enough to speak with it' pet.

Not that it was a completely horrible cat or anything. Even I had to admit it was cute with its small ears and bright green eyes.. But neither I nor my parents could bear to call it by its real name, and it refused to even acknowledge your existence if you tried calling it by anything thing else. No "here kitty, kitty," or "who's a pretty boy?" Nope, "Mr. Tinklebottom".

His death should not have been a big deal. A simple pass away from old age like a good little house cat. But no, the death of Mr. Tinklebottom came along with the death of my sister. She would always hold him close to her when we were in the car, similar to a teddy bear. It was just bad luck it was her side which was hit the worst by the truck.

Of course I was traumatized for a good while, my parents and I took years of therapy to help get over our loss and help us move on. Of course we were all never the same again; I left for college a few years after the event, leaving behind a weeping mother and a father with the personality of a statue. I stayed true to my cowardice for the most part. Too afraid to take my own life, too afraid to talk to my parents about how we all felt. I cried almost every night since her death, sometimes on a whim, sometimes I forced myself to. It helped ease the pain of being an utter coward.

But life pushed on, time sped up to its normal pace again, and I found myself in my last year of college with no friends, no girlfriend, and majoring in something so uninteresting I sometimes forget what it is, including right now. In time, it was easy to forget my cowardly nature due to the fact nothing happened anymore. Just the continual drawl of school, work, and sleep. Until a week ago.

It was an average night. I was tired out of my mind after an entire day of school and being a store clerk. So tired, in fact, I didn't notice the post card laying on the floor behind my door when I stepped into my small apartment. 

I patted my cat, Carl, on the head as he sat on the small kitchen table and flopped onto the couch which served as my bed. I noticed something was wrong when my cat didn't jump on my chest after I had settled in. I laid there, not desiring to move, but I soon grew worried about the reason why Carl was breaking our almost three year system and forced myself to sit up.

Carl was easy to spot, his snow white fur stood out in the dim room. He sat, still as a statute, in front of the door, facing me.

"Carl?" I asked, trying to peer at him through the tired haze of my eyes and the darkened room. "What's wrong, boy?"

Carl sat there for a second more before he walked towards me and I took notice of the square piece of paper he was holding in his mouth.

"What you got there?"

Carl didn't make a sound as he sat beside the couch. He never did vocalize much. In the three years I had known him, Carl had not so much as let out a meow. I reached over and pulled the card shaped object from his mouth.

I tried my best to examine it through the low light of the room, but all I could make out was some blurred shapes and even blurrier writing. With a slight groan of irritation, I reached up towards the wall for the light switch high above my couch-bed.

The picture in my hand began to materialize as the light on my ceiling flashed on. Squinting at it, I began to see pictures of cats-- cats of all shapes and sizes-- playing with giant yarn balls, chasing hundreds of wind up rat toys, clawing at tower- sized scratching posts, all while resting upon valleys of clouds. In the far corner of it all was the words 'Wish You Were Here' written in large, curvy gold letters. 

I wondered if my parents had gone to some kind of weird cat-oriented vacation as I turned over the post card.

I knew right away it wasn't anything from my parents. The words were written evenly spaced apart and in more of the curvy pattern I had just seen. I then wondered if it was a weird invitation to some special cat party.

 I read the strange post card and, after reading it over and over again for the next few hours, I am now able to write, word for word, what the post card had said. It read as follows:

To Mr. Matthew Polture

It has not been going well for me ever since Sherry and I left. Cat Heaven was more than we ever could have hoped for and I do not think Sherry even realizes she does not belong here. I believe she must think she is in her own version of Heaven. Amusing, don't you think? 

But I am not writing you this to tell you how your sister is faring. I want you to know how I am faring, Matthew. I thought, when I died, that I would be free of her. But, alas, even in the afterlife your little sister continues to hold me too tight and pet me too rough. She has even started to irritate the other cats here! I've had enough of it and I'm writing you to tell you I've found a way out of it, out of Cat Heaven, and I am coming staying with you, Matthew. You always seemed so gentle, so timid. You will be able to care for me properly, won't you, Matthew?

Yours Truly,

Mr. Tinklebottom

Next to the name, a cat's paw print was inked in. 

I looked over to Carl. My cat stared back at me with his large blue eyes.

I first assumed this whole thing to be a joke. Some sort of sick prank pulled by one of the many bullies I had back in high school. But I soon realized it could not be possible. I didn't have any friends those bullies could have beaten information out of. And they didn't learn anything about my private life from me. My little sister's friends didn't even know I existed most of the time, let alone would remember enough to write me a prank post card.

I spent the rest of the time I could stay awake trying to figure it out. I fell asleep and dreamed about cats prancing through clouds and woke up in a sweat as if it was some terrible nightmare. At work, I sent people to the wrong aisles when they asked for a certain product and even wheeled over a large keg of beer to a guy who had asked for one of our lounge chairs. All I could think about was the strange post card. I was starting to sink into a fear I had long forgotten I had.

Who would go through all the trouble to send this post card to me? Couldn't have been anyone who wished me any sort of good will. What if they kept sending more? What if they started getting worse, more threatening? What if they started demanding money?

When I made it home, I made a bee-line straight for the post card and read it several more times. In the middle of my thirtieth or so read, I looked over to the door to see Carl sitting where he had when he was holding the post card. 

No new card rested between his jaws. A small grace.

I was a little unsettled by the way he stared at me. Carl had always been more of a starrer to compensate for his lack of vocal communication, using his eyes to tell me what he wanted rather than with his 'words'. Something about his staring really unnerved me that time. Watching as if he was waiting for something to happen.

Later, I fell into another unsettling sleep but I no longer remember what I dreamed about. I do remember waking up in the middle of the night to a sound I hadn't heard in years. When I first opened my eyes and sat straight up in my couch, I had no clue what had woke me up. I sat there, hearing dull drum heartbeats in my chest pound away before a cat's meow alerted me.

"Carl? Is something wrong, boy?" I called while trying to peer at the floor through the darkness. I searched for a short while before he meowed again. "Carl...what's...?"

It hit me. Carl never meows. Ice cold chills soared down my spine. My entire body started to shake. 

A pair of bright green eyes pierced through the darkened room.

I screamed as soon as I saw them and shot out of my couch. I tumbled over one side of the arm rest and into the wall and pressed myself as tight as I could against it. I was nowhere near the door or a light switch. 

My panic level rose as soft footsteps began padding in my direction.

"Stay back!" I shouted, searching for any sort of weapon, with none to be found. I had backed myself into a corner.

"Please, do not be alarmed, Matthew," a soft voice called. It spoke with a tone which made it impossible to tell if it was male or female. "It is only I."

The green eyes appeared again near the floor, a few feet away from me.

"Wh-Who are you?" I stuttered, pressing myself even closer against the wall, my breathing going in and out of me faster than I could control. I thought I was going to have a heart attack when the eyes drifted closer.

"Don't you remember me, Matthew?" the voice pressed as the green eyes bore into me. "I lived with you...I played with you...I laughed with you...We all lived and loved together, Matthew...until my life was cut short..."

I wanted to scream as I felt the small paws walk on top of my shaking legs. I wanted to run when I felt them pad across my stomach, but I couldn't. Even as they halted at my chest and the green eyes were inches away from my own, I couldn't move. I was paralyzed with fear.

"Do you know who I am now, Matthew?" the voice whispered into my ear.

"Mr...Tinklebottom..." I breathed, my body frozen numb.

The eyes drifted even lower towards my face, until all I could see was green. "I am home."

I didn't go to work for the rest of the week. I had gotten a call from my boss saying if I don't show, I'll be fired. I still don't think I'll be going. 

In fact, when I woke up this morning, I couldn't help but notice the phone line had been cut. 

I know Mr. Tinklebottom did it. He hasn't talked to me since that night, but I know he would kill me if I was on the phone again.

The T.V is still smashed from when Mr.Tinklebottom knocked it over a few nights ago. I know he would kill me if I ever watched T.V again. 

The keys vanished the other day. I know Mr. Tinklebottom threw them out my window. I know he would kill me if I ever left our home again.

There is only Mr. Tinklebottom. There is only Mr. Tinklebottom. There is only Mr.Tinklebottom.

I have to go. I can't type on this laptop anymore. I need to destroy it. Mr.Tinklebottom will wake up from his nap soon. I know he will destroy it himself soon, but I also know he will kill me if he ever finds out I wrote this instead of caring for him.

Sorry, mom and dad. Sorry, sis.

I have always been a coward.