[ this is backwritten to when barbie killed cinderpaw ! in this thread that's dated dec 16th!! ]
When she returns home, the sun has nearly sunk beneath the horizon. The blood has crusted on her - her paws, her maw, her chest... places that were once as white as snow now dyed. She thinks it'll clean off (hopes it'll clean off.) She slips into the junkyard with hardly more than two mice to show for her efforts in the outerlands. The third dangles as roadkill, already half eaten by scavengers (and herself.) She plans to finish that one and pawn off the other two to whomever asks for them. There are mothers and kits of whom should eat first, she thinks, but after what she did... she isn't so sure she can have a holier-than-thou thought process in the moment.
The molly, hoping the few mice can be explanation enough for the dried blood on her pelt, seats herself near a pile of junk. She drops the prey beside her, exhausted from her day, and begins trying to comb out the muck from her fur. She doesn't think of Cinderpaw as she does it. Not the way he looked at her, the way he just... let her hurt him. The way he wheezed... (was that his final breath?) No - no, she isn't thinking about him. For all she cares, he's alive with some nasty scars to remember her by. She never cared for him - he was just a means of survival that eventually got too complicated.
Barbie convinces herself as much, a few tears rolling down her cheeks in the meanwhile.
When she returns home, the sun has nearly sunk beneath the horizon. The blood has crusted on her - her paws, her maw, her chest... places that were once as white as snow now dyed. She thinks it'll clean off (hopes it'll clean off.) She slips into the junkyard with hardly more than two mice to show for her efforts in the outerlands. The third dangles as roadkill, already half eaten by scavengers (and herself.) She plans to finish that one and pawn off the other two to whomever asks for them. There are mothers and kits of whom should eat first, she thinks, but after what she did... she isn't so sure she can have a holier-than-thou thought process in the moment.
The molly, hoping the few mice can be explanation enough for the dried blood on her pelt, seats herself near a pile of junk. She drops the prey beside her, exhausted from her day, and begins trying to comb out the muck from her fur. She doesn't think of Cinderpaw as she does it. Not the way he looked at her, the way he just... let her hurt him. The way he wheezed... (was that his final breath?) No - no, she isn't thinking about him. For all she cares, he's alive with some nasty scars to remember her by. She never cared for him - he was just a means of survival that eventually got too complicated.
Barbie convinces herself as much, a few tears rolling down her cheeks in the meanwhile.
