She caught her last bird on a rusty train. That sly sad cat, hiding her sadness under a cloak of silly hisses. With a call for help and a cry for love she scratched it's neck, tearing it's flesh and gifting it's feathered spine with licks of last affection. A single tear poured from her eye, with a river to follow. Years ago she never would have hurt anything, not even for her own survival. And here she was, destroying a creature for what she could never have.
She often imagined herself flying. Soaring high above the mountain tops where nothing could touch her. Once she even dreamed she was floating around in a magical wonderland that no other animal could ever reach. So vivid and lucid the unconscious pounding of her heart woke her to tears. Happy or sad, she never knew.
But dreams are just dreams, useless, depressive. Not enough for a lonely cat to survive. A lonely cat needs to feed, to stomach a reality. So she left. She walked for miles and miles watching rows of tiny black birds fly over her head. And with each flapping wing she felt even more alone. She knew she had others who loved her, but they just wouldn't show it. No matter how many times she brushed her head against them, or eyed them with a soft meow. They just didn't care and she didn't know why.
When she got to the train there perched a pigeon. Singing to itself, ready to spread it's feathers and fly away, to home. This was too much for a lonely cat and when a lonely cat has too much, their hair stands on end. She pounced, with heartbreak deep enough to destroy a horse. When it was all over, so was she. She just didn't know it. She was a lonely cat, on a rusty train. Seemed fitting, and it was. Both cold and both lifeless, flightless, lonely.
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