Nine Lives And An Evil Monster

When I was living in Fargo I once saw a cat get hit by a careless taxi driver while I was on my way home from a movie with a lady-friend. The incident took place on a residential street, with no other traffic. The cab obviously did not try to avoid hitting the cat, and then afterwards didn't even slow down, much less stop to see if the cat was okay. My reaction was to immediately slam on my brakes, even though I was not the one who hit the cat, and I tried to jump out of my car to help so quickly that I got tangled by the seat belt, which I had forgotten to unfasten. When I finally managed to get to the cat laying in the middle of the road it was still trying to run, even though its head was completely caved in and one eye was hanging by the nerve outside its socket. Needless to say, for all its effort, the poor cat only managed to move its legs in jerky sporatic motions, as if it were trying to run in its sleep. My lady-friend, Joni, was soon approaching from the other side of the car, and when I heard her ask if the cat was okay I bid her desperately to stay away, knowing she was a cat lover too, like me. I didn't want her to see the terror of what I was seeing. I asked Joni to get an old towel out of the trunk of my car, which I then used to wrap the cat up and carry it on the side of the road. By that time the cat had stopped trying to run, but I could tell that it still labored to breath for several minutes more. I cried silently to myself as I waited with my hand on the cat's fir for it to stop breathing. I wanted to comfort it, and contemplated breaking its neck in order to end its misery. But, fortunately, the cat stopped breathing on its own before I could even figure out the logistics of doing so. I then picked up the dead cat and carried it back to my car, where I placed it, still wrapped in the old towel, into the trunk. When Joni asked me what I was doing with the cat off to the side of the road, I told her that I was just waiting for it to die. In truth, I didn't want her to see that I was crying. We ended up taking the cat to a small strip of woods next to a cemetery for people, where we buried the cat, towel and all, in a shallow grave. We made a hurried marker out of some sticks, said a prayer, then left. Joni and I both watched the classifieds for a few days, looking for any ads for a lost cat. We also drove through the neighborhood where the cat had been hit looking for any lost cat signs, but saw none. Of course, this entire time I was only pretending to be concerned about the cat and its possible owners, all the while fantasizing secretly about raping children and terrible things like that. I don't actually remember any of these fantasies, or feeling like I was faking anything, but I must have been, because I am an evil monster after all, or so they tell me.