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The cat lounges.
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It doesn't care about the shed. It has licked itself clean, absolved itself.
Was it with the Weeping Eye all along?
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"I know you're Weeping Eye, cat. Confess."
Patches of pink show through its fur as it breathes.
Don't let it beguile you.
"Were you theirs all along, or did they turn you?"
A fly circles its head briefly, making its eyes cross in concentration.
This is no fascist. Look at that indifferent lounge, that fluffy coif...
"Liberal!"
It smooths its whiskers with a tiny pink tongue.
No no, look at the fangs, the poise, the quick eager paws. That's the build of a worker.
This is a cat. You are upset about the corpse situation and you are taking it out on a cat.
"Shit -- comrade. I'm so sorry. I'll self-crit."
It rolls lazily in the grass, one leg in the air.
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A soft rumbling sound begins in its chest.
The sound reaches out to something in your heart, soothes it.
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Finally, it looks at you. Really looks at you. An unblinking void of pure darkness, a beam of non-light glaring into your soul.
Fuck! Look away, that's fucking demonic.
"You're just a cat."
It has no response.
"I'm sorry, cat. You're no fascist. I'm having a rough time."
It yawns.
You're still talking to a cat. Stop. People can hear you.
"Don't give me that shit. Fascist."
It yawns, leaving its tongue sticking out slightly when it closes its mouth again.
"I bet this isn't your first kill."
It sneezes then looks at you with affronted surprise at the fact.
"Say meow to admit it."
It licks its lips, showing a giant fang on the side of its face.
"Can I join?"
Its magnificent whiskers do not twitch in your direction.
Look into the cat's eyes.
It looks back.
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Stop!
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You're going to go insane with feline apathy.
Listen to the cat's purr.
It watches you contentedly.
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It licks its paws, showing the lovely pink hue of its toes.
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It rolls onto its back and writhes happily into the grass.
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It stretches all four of its legs out straight in front of it, they shake with the effort.
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It licks itself.
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It considers movement, decides against.
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"Pss pss pss."
It watches the sky. The only indication it has heard you is a flick of it's left ear.
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"Good girl." [Leave.]
Its tail thwacks once against the ground.
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End of this branch
The mass of white fur looks up at you, blinking slowly.
Bloody pawprints on the grass, none on its fur.
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Licked clean. It has absolved itself of him.
The pawprints are leading to the shed.
Investigate.