Killer Instincts.

The cat meowed repeatedly, over and over again. It was cute, but only at first. Its eyes were dilated, its expression frantic. “What do you want?!” I asked, with the full knowledge that it couldn’t understand a word I said.

“Meeeoow,” it cried. I shot it another frustrated glance. Why wouldn’t the stupid thing leave me be? I was trying to read Great Expectations (yawn) for school, and all I could here was “Meow.”

I finally stood up to put the dumb creature back inside the house it had so desperately wanted out of.

The fact that I had risen seemed to greatly excite the cat. It whined again and sprinted away from me in a hurry. Puzzled, but relieved, I sat back down and began to read again. I hated Charles Dickens. “Meooow.”

I flung my book down. “What, cat?! What?!” I look to my feet. The cat sits in front of me, looking proud as a peacock. And what lies in front of it, lying an inch from my bare feet? A baby rabbit with it’s head torn almost completely off, eyes looking up to the sky.

I scream.

View this story's 2 comments.