The old woman watered her flowers and hummed to herself, a small smile on her face which disappeared as quickly as the dirt on the leaves of her roses under the spray.
Shouts from the shambles of a house next to hers echoed out of the open door. The door was always open and she could hear everything — everything — the neighbours did. As if the loud music at all times of the day and night and their loud… lovemaking, wasn’t enough, it wasn’t the worst of it.
No, the worst was the fighting.
She had no idea that two young women could be so loud, foul, or violent.
“They’re at it again, Pompadour.”
The cat in the bushes looked away, it’s head turning in a lazy arc to glare at her before it closed them.
“Yes, I think it’s best to ignore it, too.” She went back to her roses.
Her head snapped around as the rickety screen door of the neighbouring house crashed open and hung in pieces held together by screen mesh.
“Take that, you stinking cuntbag!”
The more violent of the two girls stumbled onto what was once a lawn. A beanie pasted hair the colour of blue toilet water mixed with urine around her head. She wore a dirty white T-shirt with the sleeves torn off and a black sports bra beneath it. Torn black denim shorts ended at her knees and long army boots were laced up her calves.
One of those booted feet lashed out.
The old woman’s hand flew to her mouth, the hose dropping.
The fluffy cream cat with black feet twisted in the air with a yowl, landed awkwardly and rolled away.
The old woman let out a cry and the girl turned to her. Deep scratches raked her from above her left eyebrow to the side of her mouth and weeped blood.
The old woman let out another cry.
With an unnatural scream, the ball of fur leapt on the girl’s face, sinking in tooth and claw, and the girl let out a bellow to match her attacker’s.
With a scream, the other girl raced from the house in a pair of briefs, her pale undulous breasts flying, metal baseball bat in hands.
The bat swung, and connected.
The cat fell.
The injured girl fell to her knees as her girlfriend trembled, unable to touch her blood-stained face, gibbering words that seemed to hold no meaning.
The old woman let out another cry.
The two girls turned to look at her, but didn’t make it that far.
A dozen or so cats ambled across the brown and yellow yard and stopped to glare.
The naked girl screamed and fell to crab-walk away.
The bloody faced girl grabbed up the bat and used it to push herself up to her feet.
The cats surged forward, hissing and growling deep in their throats, making noises unlike any cat -- any thing -- the old woman had heard before.
One flew back, it’s head at an awkward angle as the bat rang out, but they flowed around the standing girl like she was a rock in a stream.
The naked girl screamed as the cats brought down her fleeing form, leaping onto her back in handfuls, claws tangling in her long hair. She went down and rolled, and others fell on her exposed chest and face.
The old woman watched in frozen fear as they tore shreds from her flesh, holes appearing in her arms, cheeks, thighs. Her chest became raw mounds of meat and blood even as her girlfriend attacked the things. More appeared to take the place of the fallen, several dragging broken limbs or rolling insanely before twitching to a stop.
Then the girl on the ground fell as silent as the dead creatures.
“Trish?” The standing girl batted another cat aside and dove in, and then fell back as the cats cleared away to reveal the horrible scene. She turned to attack the cats and, enraged and ready to exact her revenge.
But they were no longer interested in her.
“P— Pompadour?”
The sleek short grey coat of the cat shone in the sun where it stood atop the fence. It turned to the mass on the ground and caterwauled, then turned to her and hissed.
Furred bodies swarmed over the fence and fell on the woman.
One of the last things she saw was Pompadour’s teeth closing on her eye.