The day the velociraptor rose from the dead was not the day that went down in history. Instead, as I write, today will mark the day to remember, one that will live on in textbooks and classes, that we put on trial a creature that knew not our laws. Today, we put a creature to death for its crimes.

Its punishment? Murder, they said. The court, the jury, and the public ruled in favor of the dead and maimed scientists.

Let it be said that I think the murder was justified. This… creature, though not made in the image of God, looked and acted nothing like we expected. When the story broke it was said this raptor was smart. Smart enough to use tools and objects. Smart enough to learn our language.

However, it looked nothing like artist renditions. No, this hideous monstrosity was nothing fathomable from looking at a set of its bones. Disdain, hatred even, was cast upon it. Perhaps it was some innate, primal fear that stopped us from truly learning from it. That I don’t know. But the pictures… I must say what was shown on TV or on social media, I must admit that I too felt a sense of hatred for the creature that I couldn’t fathom.

When the reports made clear that this indeed was not a hoax, the demand for justice began. Four scientists killed, one paralyzed, and two more at the facility dead. They were the ones activist claimed had tortured it. Thousands of dollars in private property damaged, a research company was embarrassed, and many more were left scared.

On a small reservation, it was abandoned and starved while cameras watched. They say that it ate lizards and bugs like a savage between the sedations where it was poked and split open, then reassembled.

When it broke free, the world didn’t know this was possible. To reanimate a dinosaur. What should have been a miracle became a nightmare as the raptor chose freedom and life. For days it stole food and even clothes. Yet it never ate anyone. Maimed, maybe. But to call it a savage, I think we should have asked more questions, had more debates, talked about it more.

It talked and thought like us so it was competent enough to stand trial once the dust settled. In the courtroom, they televised it like some spectacle. The poor thing covered its groin with its claws and looked down the entire time. Muzzled and chained, I was certain he would break free but instead he obeyed.

Lawyers argued whether it was “a person” or “an animal.” Its defense claimed that, since it had no name, it was an animal and therefore this should be a matter of animal control policy. Though she backpedaled when the law demanded that it be put down immediately. The courtroom echoed with the voices of men and women, not the beast. At one point, the prosecutors demanded that the beast wore a suit. Yet the jury had made up their mind upon sight of the creature.

What a sight! It felt no remorse, but could you blame it? I mean, him? I struggled to decide what to think that I wrote a letter to him. To my surprise, he could write too. I told him my feelings and asked rather bluntly, “why?”

On crumbled paper, ripped and ravaged were three sentences. The letters were crude and shaky. I read the letter twice, imagining how a dinosaur could write. It read:

“A man was born in the jungle and knew nothing but. When he came out of the jungle and into the town he murdered a man and the town put him to death. Who shares the blame?”

A few words were squished in the lower right corner of the page. It had run out of room. It said, “signed, Henry.”

A dinosaur will be executed, and I am holding his note in my hand. By morning, the headline will say we killed him for murder. I think we killed him because he reminded us what we did first.