Framed - Prologue.
The cat slipped between the two trees, form flattened against the ground, fur matted and dirty. The cat was a kit, pretending to be a vicious warrior from the enemy clan, while the kit as black as night played leader. She pretended to 'unsheathe' her claws, though in reality she slid them back in the moment her enemy had taken note of the movement. The game was just that- a roleplay of sorts, reality re-imagined in a different way to entertain them.
The enemy launched towards her figure, and her paws leapt from her sitting position to meet the other she-kit halfway, paws outstretched towards the form flying towards her
She leapt towards the limping figure, determined to breathe the last breath. Her sneer was mocking, taunting her victim, as she landed in front of the leader. Silently, she unsheathed her unnaturally long, curved claws to slash at the she-cat's fur, tearing open a gaping wound down one side, which proceeded to ooze with the harsh-scented crimson liquid that the tabby was drawn to.
The two furry bundles collided, 'clawing' at eachother, pushing each other to the ground, rolling over and over, until neither had much sense of the world around them. The black kit nipped at the she-kits scruff, a hiss forming in her throat as she kicked the form off, scampering away while the tabby recovered.
She gasped for air, pain written across her face, although the expression was barely visible in comparison to the shock - hurt - tainting her eyes. She pressed against the cool, slate-grey boulder conveniently cornering her. The she-cat showed no mercy, lashing at her trembling form again. Yet she refused to fight back, to fight against her friend, hoping she could break through to beneath the monster that her friend- or what was her friend - represented now.
Her eyes were blood-crazed, brown-fur damp with blood not her own. It was like she had no control over herself, her body and precise movements. But the leader knew the truth, that she was moving off of her own accord.
The tabby's look of fury in that moment may have hinted of what was to come, that maybe, deep beneath she wasn't as sweet and innocent as she played, but the black she-kit could never have foretold such a change. The kit launched forwards, determined to land a deft blow around her friend's ear, but the black she-kit deflected it, easily, which maddened her more.
The she-cat played with her victim - a huntress toying with its prey before killing - scratching or biting eventually, but always taunting, always glaring or cackling manically. Unhinged, insane, mentally ill to a point she no longer had control of herself. Psychotic.
A killer.
The black kit giggled at what she thought was not an actual attempt at an attack, and the tabby felt her ears redden, embarrassed.
The tabby cackled once more, before bringing her paw down on the blacks neck. Her form collapsed. Dead.
Soulless, empty, murdered.
The last thing the tabby did was slip a single tuft of brown fur between the leader's claws. A shade of brown not her own.
Hello the few readers I have! I hope you like the extremely short prologue of my latest invention, 'Framed.' As for my writing, I'm extremely proud of it so far!
QOTD: What do you all think?