Bound by Silence: The Weight of Invisible Chains

My owner—such an odd word, especially when spoken in the past tense—was a billionaire obsessed with tigers. "Obsessed" is more accurate than "loved." Her fixation wasn’t love, though it looked like care from a distance. Maybe it was some twisted form of love, as she "took care of me." But in truth, I’m not sure whether she ever loved me or if I had just grown accustomed to the leash she kept me on.

I was just a cub when her parents brought me to her, shackled with a pinch collar and a bell around my neck. Clang. She smiled, but not at me—her gaze was fixed on her parents, basking in their approval. Every pat she gave me felt like a performance, her eyes constantly scanning the room for an audience. She gave me what she believed was the “best” life, but every second in her artificial paradise, I dreamed of tearing off the suffocating collar that bound me.

Yes, I still remember the Michelin-starred meals served to me three times a day. Clang. I hated them. Hated how everything was served without effort, without the thrill of the hunt. Scratch. The perfectly manicured garden, with its neat, soft grass, felt like a cage. Clang. No matter how fast I ran, it was always the same pond, the same tree, the same hammock. Scratch, scratch.

That bell… that wretched bell clanged with every movement. Scratch. The faster I ran, the louder it got, as if mocking me, reminding me I was trapped. Scratch, scratch, scratch. I panted. Clang. I roared. Scratch. I wanted to rip off that collar, more than anything. Scratch, scratch, scratch. I clawed until my paws bled, but the collar held fast. Clang. Still stuck. Clang. Still under her control, beneath her hand. And still, she wasn’t even looking at me—always scanning for someone else’s validation. My world was filled with stillness: still water, still food, still the same life under her grip.

I scratched until my fur fell away, revealing raw flesh. She noticed. For the first time, she made a strange face—almost as if she felt pain. I can’t fathom how she could feel hurt when she was the one causing my suffering. Then, without warning, she stopped pretending to care. She began to abuse me. I don’t know what shifted, but perhaps she had become as heartless as her parents—indifferent, cruel. Even more absurd was how she still sought someone’s approval, even while hurting me, screaming as if hoping someone would come. But no one ever did. No one ever had.

There were no parents, no friends, no staff. And not even I reacted to her screams and tears. I just watched. Scratch.

A few days passed. She stopped everything. She didn’t come to feed me, didn’t come to hit me. She just looked defeated, as if she had given up on herself. No, she looked desperate. But that was none of my concern. This was my chance. Scratch. I finally forced the door open, the one that had imprisoned me in her distorted fantasy. I ran. I might’ve seen her crying through the window as I escaped, but I didn’t look back. I was too fast, too focused on finding my freedom, on choosing my own path. Crack. At last, the leash broke.

. . .

I love my parents. I love them so much it’s suffocating.

My life has always been filled with silence. – No greetings, no warmth, no "I love you"s. But I don’t blame my parents. It’s not their fault they’re always busy. Busy enough not to know what I like. Busy enough to give me gifts with many zeroes instead of real time and attention. That doesn’t mean they don’t love me. I just need to try harder. I’m sure if I work hard enough, they’ll notice me.

"No, they don’t love you." Stop.

On my fifteenth birthday, my parents gave me a living gift: a tiger. Not exactly what I would’ve chosen, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was that they had chosen something for me. I imagined them thinking of me as they picked it out, selecting it just for me. I couldn’t stop smiling. Maybe this was the sign I’d been waiting for—proof that they cared. Sure, they’d been distant, but that was because they were busy, right?

"No, they were too careless to even know what you wanted." No. That can’t be true. "They probably just bought the most expensive thing they could find." Be quiet.

Maybe this tiger was a signal, a way to show me that if I took care of it, they would finally see me. So I did. I patted and fed the tiger, practicing what I would say when they noticed. "Mom, Dad, look at me, I’m taking care of the tiger." Maybe I’d tell them how much I loved the gift—or maybe, I’d tell them how much I love them. I rehearsed the moment in my head a thousand times, careful not to ask why they’d been so distant. They were busy, after all. That’s all. I waited, looking around.

But no one came.

Still alone. Still in silence.

"See? No one’s coming for you."

Stop.