“It’s just a cat,” he tells himself as a flattened lump of fur recedes in the rear view mirror, lines in the road coming together with distance behind a twitching carcass. “There’s a billion of the damned things in the world.” He hits the volume as David Lee Roth squeals, “I don’t feel tardy!” leaving the road behind with the memory of a cat that briefly thumped under tires.
“It’s too far away to matter,” she tells herself, mesmerized by the chrome and speed of the approaching thing. For the damage done, there was very little pain. Little brains are capable of understanding mortality too, especially when one evolves to make her living at killing. They can even keep memories, and recollections of warm laps and belly rubs flit by like butterflies. The face of The Child is visible before closed eyes, saying words she can’t comprehend but that reverberate within the tiny part of her brain capable of plumbing the fathoms of warmth, and comfort, and love. The cold darkness of the coming eternal night holds no fear compared to the memory of her family, and in her final breaths gentle purrs rumble past shattered and bloody teeth.