She had been splayed across the bar top, tail swishing and eyes eagerly admiring the display of liquor. Or, more accurately, the fragments of multi-colored light that danced along the adjacent wall. Pleased with the idle dreaming of how far up she could scale this time before grumpy Uncle Husk came to end her antics.
That was when all went silent: An ambient tone carried with her for all this time, something Dorothy hadn’t even registered before it was simply snuffed out.
Hackles rose with the rest of her, rocketing off the raised surface, scarcely noticing her balance blundering under the harsh impact to the floor. Still she tore through the lobby and up the grand staircase, the personification of apprehension was giving chase to ghosts until she skidded to a halt in front of their door—an entrance to a tomb, a concept she would never quite grasp.
Four desperate paws raked and clawed at the closed door. Please!! Please let her in!! But this time nothing would happen: There would be no carefully placed footfalls to the threshold. No soothing welcome once the door creaked open. And never again would the world rip itself apart just for her to find herself enveloped between baleful claws and fine-pressed wool.
At the silence that replied, Dorothy worked at the door; pawing and scratching to give any leeway between the latch and the frame. Anything at all to sink her teeth into. And so, row after row of fangs gnawed at the reinforced fiber. Tiny jaw latching on for all that she could, leaving teeth behind and her mouth bloody by the time she could just barely scrape past and into the room.
What greeted her was stillness, a darkened room, and a new addition of decor skirting across the far wall. The raking of scarlet claws blossoming with gradually darkening edges that paired well with its metallic tang; how indisputable, how absolute this final piece was. And, clumped upon the floor, the artist was starring straight at it.
“Papa...?”, the hellkit trilled, tiny tuffed ears perking in tune with her tail. However, with each step forward, with every ignored mewl, her aspiration diminishes. That luscious tail is dragging along the floor by the time she is beside him.
“Pa-pa?...”, she whispers into his face, rubbing against it with force just to watch it coldly fall back into to place.
“...papa?!”, a bit louder now, followed by more plaintive mews.
But she knows that unregistered stare and limp form; it’s a trademark to know her hunt is a sucess...
“...pa-PA?!”, it’s becoming repetitive, jumbling out if her mouth no matter how shards of snapped fangs puncture her tongue.
He isn’t...he isn’t smiling.
“PAPA!!!”, she wails only subduing once her voice cracks. The final call echos across the marsh, almost seeping into the gnarled, barren trees and down into the murky depths below. But, this time, nothing calls back.
Anyone else who were to come through that damaged door would not be greeted by stillness. No, now a faint rumble fills this space as the kit—glossy eyed and fur stained red—nestles down into the crevice of the late artist’s neck.
