He'd only meant to take shelter for a short time -- as long as it took for immediate danger to pass, and then he'd be on his way to find whatever remained of his own house. A frantic hour of licking wounds with his ears on alert, close to a second hour of trying to figure out the best way to breathe without feeling like he's dying, and then several more wondering how he was ever going to bring himself to move out from under this porch when just trying to get back on his feet is proving to be as difficult as lifting a tree. He isn't sure how much time passes, then, spent struggling on and off to stay awake. The next day is more 'off' than 'on', though all his wishes of his brain turning off and the time passing so he doesn't have to deal with the pain and nausea anymore aren't answered. It's exhausting.
It's too early in his life for his muscle and bone to act like stone. He'd shown that beast that made him like this that he still bled red, so he knows he still has time. At least the proof of that is something he can negotiate with his concussed self on to not view the conflict as a total loss, even while he's giving up on moving after a mere handful of inches, when it isn't necessary. In every other way, though, victory had gone to that monstrous wolf, who by all rights should be having to use his broken bones and whiskers to floss out bits of his flesh from between her fangs.
By the dawn of day three, Cat can't stand the filth anymore, and he thinks that even if he had anyone to cry to, all that would come out was a creak that would confuse even an old door. He can feel his tongue too thickly and his wrists in taut strings, and he wonders if this body will hold out as long without water as his human one could. He doesn't need to find out... Ah, just how pampered has he become during the months away from Krat, only treated to rare entanglements, and never having to work for his meals?
The little orange, tuft-tailed cat eventually limps his way across to another wrecked, half-collapsed porch, luckily one home over, that his tiny ears pick out the steady drizzle and drip of broken pipework leaking. Most of his caution comes from holding himself in such a way and moving at a pace where he can keep himself from hissing or crumpling. His mind is much too taxed to pay attention to predators that might still be lurking between vines or debris, and his body is quick to claim the limit, too, as soon as he's out of the open. Of course it couldn't hold out until he was close enough to the pipe's opening to lap water up -- that would be too much of a good thing for someone so permanently stuck in a bad way. Between the cleaning away some of the blood stuck in his fur that he could actually reach and the coughing fits that felt like knives, the pathetic moments of chewing grass to keep his stomach from whining too much were just barely a reprieve from the taste of metal. He thinks he tastes it again in his shuddered exhale as he closes his eyes. Just for a bit, until he can stand moving again.
backdated to april's overgrowth plot
Date: 2024-05-25 04:11 am (UTC)It's too early in his life for his muscle and bone to act like stone. He'd shown that beast that made him like this that he still bled red, so he knows he still has time. At least the proof of that is something he can negotiate with his concussed self on to not view the conflict as a total loss, even while he's giving up on moving after a mere handful of inches, when it isn't necessary. In every other way, though, victory had gone to that monstrous wolf, who by all rights should be having to use his broken bones and whiskers to floss out bits of his flesh from between her fangs.
By the dawn of day three, Cat can't stand the filth anymore, and he thinks that even if he had anyone to cry to, all that would come out was a creak that would confuse even an old door. He can feel his tongue too thickly and his wrists in taut strings, and he wonders if this body will hold out as long without water as his human one could. He doesn't need to find out... Ah, just how pampered has he become during the months away from Krat, only treated to rare entanglements, and never having to work for his meals?
The little orange, tuft-tailed cat eventually limps his way across to another wrecked, half-collapsed porch, luckily one home over, that his tiny ears pick out the steady drizzle and drip of broken pipework leaking. Most of his caution comes from holding himself in such a way and moving at a pace where he can keep himself from hissing or crumpling. His mind is much too taxed to pay attention to predators that might still be lurking between vines or debris, and his body is quick to claim the limit, too, as soon as he's out of the open. Of course it couldn't hold out until he was close enough to the pipe's opening to lap water up -- that would be too much of a good thing for someone so permanently stuck in a bad way. Between the cleaning away some of the blood stuck in his fur that he could actually reach and the coughing fits that felt like knives, the pathetic moments of chewing grass to keep his stomach from whining too much were just barely a reprieve from the taste of metal. He thinks he tastes it again in his shuddered exhale as he closes his eyes. Just for a bit, until he can stand moving again.