Zen

Zen, a 24-year-old Siamese—a venerable age for a feline, even in a school that housed creatures of varying lifespans—sat huddled in a corner of the courtyard at the School for Carnivores, Herbivores, and Mammals. His once vibrant coat was now a faded creamy shade, the dark tips slightly faded by age. His once-bright blue eyes reflected a deep melancholy, a reflection of years of silent humiliation. The school, a microcosm of the wild, was a place of stark contrasts. Towering lions, teddy bears, and graceful deer lived together (most of the time) in relative harmony, but Zen, with his delicate frame and reserved nature, was an easy target for teasing. His 24 years at the school were marked by a constant sense of inadequacy. While the other students boasted of strength, speed, or cunning, Zen was seen as fragile, an old and tired Siamese, incapable of defending himself against the provocations of those stronger. He remembered with bitterness the cruel jokes, the unnecessary shoving, the laughter that followed him like a shadow. His physical fragility was constantly used against him, a daily reminder of his inferior position in the school hierarchy. Age, which in other animals brought respect, in Zen only accentuated his vulnerability. He had learned to hide, to become invisible, to avoid the busy hallways and noisy courtyards, seeking refuge in dark and silent corners, like the one he occupied now. Solitude was his only companion, a shield against the pain of constant rejection. Even so, a thread of hope, almost imperceptible, still persisted in his feline heart, a silent desire for acceptance, for a place where his fragility would not be a sentence of solitary and humiliating life