"I have a very important task for you," said Schrodinger to Pandora, handing her a ring of keys. "Make yourself at home in my laboratory. Help yourself to any snacks from the fridge."
 
Pandora looked from the keys in her hand to the strangely intimidating and, yet, alluring door. "What's in there?" she queried.
 
"Just a cat," he replied quickly, shrugging into his coat and hurrying to the door before she could ask any more questions.
 
He scurried out into the darkness, knowing full well what mischief Pandora would get up to in his absence, knowing that the cat should never be freed. Schrodinger created that cat: a beast that is not alive, nor is it truly dead. What it is, this cat is a diseased, rotting, undead thing. Schrodinger made it. He rolled in the filth with it. He cuddled it to himself, reveling in the disease, breathing in its rot, but, at long last, even Schrodinger began to feel uneasy.
 
He had been trapped in the darkness with this thing, with this terrible knowledge of what he had done; this dark, twisted secret. It rustles in the darkness, stealing his peace of mind. It taunts him from the shadows, a secret that can never be told; a secret that can never be shared. In his growing guilt and madness, Schrodinger begins to believe that he can free himself from it.
 
If he can just send it from him; if he can just drive it from the darkness and send it into the light, surely, it will be destroyed. His mind will be cleansed. All will be made fresh and new. It will be as if he never crafted that disease-ridden beast. So, he leaves.
 
He entrusts the keys to Pandora, knowing full well what she will do. She will unlock the door. She will release his terrible secret. She will let the filthy, rotting beast out into the world. She cannot help herself.
 
And, Schrodinger, you will not be cleansed. You cannot cure yourself of infection by spreading disease. All you have done is shared your horror with the world. We didn't need to know, Schrodinger. We didn't want to know. No one needed to see your undead cat, Schrodinger. Keep your theories and your horrible secrets to yourself.
 
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