Well kids, there's really no easy way to tell you this...
I'm a murderer now.
I can't really say where I went wrong. The evening started off like any other. Chicken sandwiches for dinner with Druw and McKell, Ricky's softball game with Jared; followed by a peaceful round of Talisman in the Stephenson kitchen.
(I lost, by the way. This may have have spiked my murderous rage).
We gave hugs and parted ways. My drive home was monotonous and uneventful... until the moment when it all changed. My favorite song had just come on the radio and I was reaching down to turn up the volume so I could hardcore jam when...
FOR THE LOVE!?
I gasped as my headlights caught the outline of some psychotic feline who had somehow deduced that playing chicken with cars on winding roads late at night was good form. I SLAMMED on my breaks and tried to veer out of the way.
My efforts were in vain.
Its body made contact with the bottom of my car and my back left tire, respectively. I swear I could almost feel its spirit depart from this world.
I pulled off to the side of the road - panicking. My pulse was racing, I was wide-eyed, panting, hands shaking...
I had just ended a life.
I had just ended a life.
But wait, it gets worse.
For some offbeat reason, I thought that I might feel better if I could just drive back to see for sure if I had run it over.
After all, one can never be too careful when it comes to these things.
I drove that stretch of road slowly and carefully - looking for any and all signs of kitten pancake.
There were no remains.
I didn't feel any better.
I frantically checked between the tires and under the hood of my car because maybe just maybe if the cat was lodged into the frame of my vehicle, I could free it and rush to an emergency vet. Somehow, I knew that I would beat the odds and arrive in the nick of time before it bled out on my passenger seat.
(Even though I had no idea where an emergency vet might be located...)
I was going to be the hero, gosh dangit.
But alas, I was fresh out of luck. There were no signs of dying cat anywhere in the crevices of my tires or under my hood.
(Although for a brief second, I thought that I heard a chilling "meow" for help. It was my guilty subconscious, I'm sure).
Horrified, I drove the stretch of road slowly, one more time.
Which means that somehow that poor cat survived the 38mph force of my little dodge neon and skulked off into the woods somewhere to die a slow and painful death.
For a brief moment, I imagined it heaped in a pile of leaves somewhere... disfigured, bleeding, sobbing for mercy, begging to have the pain end...
I shuddered and called Ricky in hopes that he would provide me with words of comfort, or perhaps some palliative musings on the life of the departed.
"Well... You're a murderer now."
So, apparently that's all there is left for me.
Watch your backs, I guess.