The cat had been loved once, soft strokes of affection across its fur, a life full of comfort and warmth. It had nestled between the owners' feet, followed them around the house, purring in quiet contentment.
But as it often does, time crept in unnoticed. The owners grew older, their movements slower, their words softer, and their days shorter. It was then that the cat's life, once filled with care, began to fade like the last scraps of a forgotten dream.
When the owners died, it wasn't a grand event, no tragic end that would make the neighbors gasp. Just the soft, quiet fading of two people who once held the world in their hands. And then, the house, once bustling with life, was emptied out, except for the cat. Alone. Forgotten.
For a while, there was nothing. No voices, no laughter, no footsteps on the floor. The silence stretched long, so long that even the house seemed to shrink, the walls pressing in.
It was the relatives who came next. A group of strangers with eyes too cold, too sharp. They didn't care for the cat. They never had. To them, the feline was just another thing that came with the property, a useless relic of a life that had slipped through their fingers. No one bothered to ask what the cat might need, what it had been to the owners who had loved it. They didn't want it.
The door was left open. The cat stood at the threshold, peering out, waiting for someone, anyone, to call it back, to say it could stay. But no one did. The house, now empty, felt like a tomb, its echoes pressing in on the cat like hands wrapping around its ribs.
It didn't know what to do. The yard was big, overgrown with weeds and grass that brushed against its legs, whispering like the voices of the past. For the first time in its life, the cat was truly alone.
Days passed. The street outside was strange, the people too busy with their own lives to notice a stray, the houses too far apart to offer comfort. The cat wandered from one side of the street to the other, searching for something familiar, something warm. There was none. The days grew colder, darker, and the cat's fur, once sleek and well-groomed, began to tangle. It grew thin, bones jutting against its skin.
At night, the sounds of other cats drifted in from the alleys. They were wild things, their eyes gleaming like tiny fires in the darkness. They didn't belong to anyone. They didn't need anyone. The cat could feel them watching from the shadows, their gazes cold and uncaring. It should've been afraid, but it wasn't. It was too far gone for fear.
Then one night, they came for it.
The cat was curled in the corner of an abandoned garage, the scent of mold and decay thick in the air, when it first heard the rustling. It didn't move at first. But when the sounds grew louder, it stood up, fur prickling. The alley had gone quiet. The only sound was its own heartbeat.
A cat appeared, a wild thing, eyes glinting like knives in the dark. The cat froze. There was no time to run, no place to hide. The wild one stepped closer, a hiss escaping its throat, sharp and full of malice.
More appeared behind it. Their eyes burned, hungry and cruel. The cat wanted to run, but its legs wouldn't move, its body too weak, too tired. The wild ones were coming closer, circling, their growls a constant, rising hum.
The first one lunged, teeth snapping. The cat didn't even have time to react before the fangs sank into its side, tearing at the thin flesh. Pain ripped through it, sharp and hot, but the cat barely felt it. The hunger in the others was far worse.
More bites came, sinking into its tender skin, claws raking, shredding what little life remained. It couldn't fight back. There was nothing left to fight with. It had no strength, no hope.
The wild cats didn't stop. They tore, clawed, and ripped, savoring the blood, the fear, the desperation. They were relentless, and the cat, too far gone, could only whimper in the dark.
It had no shelter, no comfort. Just the cold, cruel reality of being nothing more than prey. The sound of teeth tearing into its flesh filled the night, the agony a song of brutal inevitability.
Finally, after what felt like hours, the wild cats backed away. The cat could barely move, its body too broken to escape. It lay in the dirt, alone again, the other cats retreating into the dark corners of the alley. The pain was unbearable. It could feel its own blood pooling on the ground beneath it, staining the earth beneath.
The night stretched on. The cat didn't know how long it had been lying there, unable to move, too far gone to even feel the cold anymore. Its body had given up. Its spirit had died a long time ago.
Days passed, and the cat, now a mere shell of the thing it once was, stumbled weakly from its makeshift den. It was starving, barely able to walk. It had nothing left to give.
The street was empty. No one was watching. No one cared.
The next time it saw other cats, they didn't even look at it. They were too busy with their own lives, too consumed by the need to survive. They passed it by without a second glance, just another hungry, forgotten thing in a world that had long moved on. No one to comfort it, no one to take it in.
The cat made its way to the edge of the street, its legs shaking, its eyes dull. It curled up beneath a tree, the dry leaves rustling around it like whispers of the past. It tried to remember what it had once felt. The warmth. The love. But it was gone now, buried beneath the crushing weight of time and neglect.
Its final breath came in the dark, soft and silent. The world didn't stop. It didn't mourn. It didn't even notice.
And just like that, it was over.