Don't ask me what this is. I don't know.
[Sitting Pretty]
.a dark Valentine's drabble.
It wasn't his fault that he thought she was pretty, was it? After all, it wasn't like you could really control your emotions or anything. They just . . . came. Anyway, thinking a cat of the opposite gender to be on the good-looking side isn't even definable as an emotion. It's just a comment, merely a remark; there wouldn't be any way that it could turn out as harmful, right?
Wrong.
He soon learned that, yes, it certainly bloody well could. And the only one he could come to blame was himself, in the end, because it was his fault that he hadn't kept a better watch on his heart. He learned that you really had to keep tabs on it, to monitor the stupid pulsing organ, to make sure that its overwhelmingly passionate emotions stayed in check.
Oh, what a laughable fantasy that was!
Moons passed, and he came to watch her like a piece of prey, saliva dripping from his fangs all the while; she just looked so . . . delicious. He could barely contain his endless daydreams about feeling the heat of her on him, feeling the soft rasp of her tongue over his ear, feeling the fire burning through him at the contact it required.
His dreams grew constant and violent, filled with thrashing, kicking, squirming bodies. Shrieks rose up into the air all around him, and it often took him by surprise when he realized that most of them came from him, yowls of triumph and malice.
The other screams were composed of agony and fear, and they ripped through the air like whirlwinds of tortured blood.
When he awoke from these nightmares, the images never left him. There was simply no way to force them out of his head, and so they stayed there throughout the sunburned day, weighing down his paws and bringing a rebellious gleam to his eyes.
Long after the final feud, when he would sit in his forever-lasting hellhole, he would continue to ponder to himself, and wonder what would have happened if he had never had that original thought--the one where he commented on her beauty. But how could he not have? She was so, so . . . irresistible! The sleek hairs along her body, the sharp angles of her face and jawbones, the slender curves of her haunches as she stepped stealthily through the trees.
How seductively attractive.
Still, he sometimes felt the pangs of regret--harsher than the most barren leafbare and colder than the deadest stare--that pierced his guttering soul like thorns. Remorse was a devilish thing, oh, yes, it was, the way it swallowed your smiles and took advantage of your worries. But soon that, too, would come to pass, and he would be free once more.
Either way, he felt it unjust that he had to die. That certain . . . declaration had come to him, plain and simple, and there had been nothing he could do to stop the thought from jumping into his mind. Or stop what it had grown into, for that matter.
It had been such a simple observation, yet it had transformed into such a freaking mess.
He watched her over the border, he watched her at the gatherings, he watched her everywhere she went. It became not just a habit, or a curiosity, but an obsession. And he thrived on the feeling.
Never would he forget that day, the day the truth came out. The day he was condemned to his eternal damnation, the day he spoke the fateful words, the last day he ever saw the sun.
And she was there the whole while, unaware as ever, blinking contentedly at her surroundings and smiling at the world. Sitting golden.
Sitting pretty.
I don't understand how it came out so...dark. o.o Dude. I mean, it was supposed to be a stupid fluffy/cute Valentine's drabble, because that's sort of how I started it, buuut...oh, well. -shrug- Hey, at least it's something! :D
Now review. 8K
--Annie;;/
Saturday February 14, 2009