The cat's blood coats my hands. It is still warm and still fresh. My stomach has stopped to protest, but there's no real satisfaction. No sense of fullness. Just an aftertaste of regret and a fur-covered crime scene.
I stare at the little corpse dangling from my hands, its puffed tail is now limp, its body still twitching with the remnants of life.
Jesus.
I drop it unceremoniously onto the cold floor, wiping my mouth with the back of my sleeve. I feel like I should say something, maybe offer a quick lo siento to the universe, but all that comes out is a heavy exhale.
It's a damn cat. A cat. A scrappy apocalypse survivor like me. It didn't deserve this.
I bite my lip. Did he deserve it? The man I almost devoured?
What's the difference between him and the cat? If I had killed him instead, would I be sitting here feeling the same thing? Or would I be sprawled out, satisfied, no longer wrestling with my own goddamn hunger?
No. I refuse to think like that.
I am not a monster.
