The white fur that used to be so soft was now under this turned earth. My stomach turned. A scream. The white fur, with patches of black. The pink, moist nose. She never bit me. Never. She never scratched me either. She slept on my chest, her breath on my cheek. Just a sweet white thing with patches of black on one ear. Sweet white thing with a black tail. Her name meant full moon. Just a kitten. Just a year before. Then I didn’t see how it ended. The asphalt, the tyre, was there a screech, a halt, an acknowledgment of a mistake, a crime, a sin? She was left there, breathless, lifeless. It was just this morning as I left for work, her sitting on the green porch, green eyes lit and ready to roam the streets. It was just this morning.
“Fragment sentences” prompt from Marilyn Abilsdkov Time & Character class, St. Mary’s College MFA program in Creative Nonfiction Writing.