Welcome! You've stumbled upon the page of an almost-nineteen year old that's currently undergoing one of her "Who Am I? What Am I Doing Here?" phases. She also happens to have a huge love for words, bright pictures and music, and constantly craves sweet, iced tea drinks. Buy her a cuppa, perhaps?
refresh? || email || facebook

Thursday, July 19, 2007 @ 2:09 PM
Faster Kill Pussycat.

Faster Kill Pussycat

We're in front of our usual morning kopitiam, and Mom spots a parking space not far from the shop.

I wait for Mom to finish parking the car patiently, unbuckling my seatbelt and hiding my Nike bag under the car seat. Wilson sits quietly in the backseat, doing whatever he does when he's in the car - either sleeping, head slanted to one side, his nose buried in one of his textbooks, or sitting quietly, staring out the window.

When mom is finally done parking, I grab my camera and iPod, stuffing them into my shallow pockets, clutching my right pocket because that's the pocket that I stuffed my camera in, trying not to let it fall out. I open the car door, and as I step out, I notice something black lying on the floor a few feet away, unmoving.

I slam the door shut, and curiously walk a few steps towards it, thinking that it is a sock someone had thrown out of a window or something. When I finally realize what it is, my hand flies to my mouth, and I recoil with shock.

It is a kitten. A little black kitten like the one in the picture, lying on its side, its body nearly flattened. Dried blood is splattered around it - I can see tyre marks (probably from a lorry as the marks are kind of big) - and worst of all - bits of brain and an eyeball are hanging out of a now empty eye socket. Flies swarm around it, and a foul stench permeates my nostrils. The little kitten has become roadkill.

My heart breaks into a bazillion pieces.