Born in Boston in 1809, Edgar Allan Poe’s father left the home, and his mother dies while he was still a child. He was raised by John Allan, a wealthy businessman. After a brief, he studied at the University of Virginia and a failed time at West Point, always in debt. Then Poe took up writing as a career and lived in Baltimore, where he married his 13-year-old cousin, Virginia Clemm, in 1836. He gained fame for dark tales and "The Raven," inventing detective fiction, but lived in poverty. Following his wife’s death in 1847, Poe suffered from depression and alcoholism. He died in 1849 at the age of 40 under mysterious circumstances in Baltimore.
For the most strange , yet also ordinary , story that I am about to write, I do not expect belief , nor do I ask for it. To tell the truth , I would be foolish to expect anyone to believe me, especially in a situation where my own senses seem to deny what they have seen . Still, I am not mad, and I am certainly not dreaming . Tomorrow I will die, and today I want to free my soul from this heavy weight . My purpose is simple: I wish to place before the world, in a clear , brief , and honest way, a series of common household events. These events have frightened , tortured* , and destroyed me. I will not attempt to explain them deeply . To me, they have been full of horror ; to others, they may seem less terrible, or even strangely ordinary . Perhaps one day, a calmer and more logical mind will explain what I now see as terrifying , and discover only a natural connection between cause and effect .
From my early childhood, I was known for my gentle and obedient nature . My kindness was so visible that my companions often made fun of me . I loved animals deeply and my parents gave me many pets. I spent most of my time caring for them and felt happiest when I was feeding and touching them . This part of my character grew as I grew, and as an adult, it became one of my greatest sources of pleasure . Anyone who has loved a loyal and intelligent dog will understand the strong satisfaction that comes from such affection . There is something deeply moving in the unselfish love of an animal , especially for someone who has experienced the weak and unreliable friendship of people.
I married at an early age and was pleased to discover that my wife shared my interests. Seeing my love for animals, she took every opportunity to bring home pets of the most pleasant kind . We owned birds, goldfish, a fine dog, rabbits, a small monkey, and a cat.
This cat was unusually large and very beautiful, completely black, and remarkably clever . When speaking of its intelligence, my wife—who was slightly superstitious by nature —often mentioned the old belief that black cats were witches in disguise . She never truly believed this, and I mention it only because it later returned to my memory.
The cat’s name was Pluto, and he was my closest companion . I was the only one who fed him, and he followed me wherever I went in the house. It was difficult to stop him from following me even into the street.
For several years, we lived in this way. During this time, however, my personality and behaviour began to change , mainly because of alcohol. I admit this with shame . Day by day, I became more bad-tempered . Events would fill me with anger and I felt less concerned about the feelings of others. I spoke to my wife in severe and cruel language , and eventually , I even became physically violent towards her.
Naturally , my pets also suffered from this change. I ignored them and often treated them badly . Still, I kept enough affection for Pluto to stop myself from hurting him, even though I did not hesitate to harm the rabbits, the monkey, or even the dog when they crossed my path. But my illness grew stronger, and no disease is as powerful as alcohol addiction . Eventually , even Pluto—now old and sometimes irritable —felt the effects of my bad temper .
One night, after returning home very drunk , I imagined that the cat was avoiding me. I grabbed him, and in fear, he bit my hand. At that moment, I became violent and out of control . I felt as though I had left my body and been replaced by something of terrible cruelty . I took a small knife from my pocket, took the cat by the neck, and cut out one of his eyes . Even now, I feel deep shame and horror as I write these words.
The next morning, when the effects of alcohol had worn off , I felt a mix of fear and regret for what I had done. However, this feeling was weak and soon disappeared. My heart remained unchanged . I returned to drinking and soon forgot the criminal act completely .
Meanwhile, the cat slowly recovered. The empty eye socket* looked terrifying , but he no longer seemed to be in pain. He moved around the house as usual but ran away in extreme fear whenever I came near. At first, this hurt me, as the animal had once loved me deeply . But my sadness soon turned into annoyance , and then something worse followed.
This was when I became perverse* —the strange human desire to do wrong simply because it is wrong. Philosophy does not fully explain this feeling, yet I am certain it exists in every human heart. Who has not, at some point , done something stupid or cruel simply because they knew they should not? We often break rules not to achieve anything for ourselves, but out of a desire to challenge them .
This feeling pushed me towards my final destruction . It drove me to continue hurting an animal that had done me no harm . One morning, while completely calm, I placed a rope around the cat’s neck and hung him from a tree . I cried while doing it, filled with bitter regret , knowing the cat had loved me and never hurt me. I also knew I was committing a serious, moral crime that would endanger my soul .
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