The cat slowly collects what it needs. A pair of hands, here, a mouth, eyes, legs, a face. The eyes are mismatched, but there’s no help for that. It trades up, hides itself in new flesh, new body. Long and lean, still hungry.

In the alleyways you meet it. Well-dressed and dangerous, face youthful and unlined because without expression. It will walk in the other end and walk towards you, grey eye and brown quizzical, hands open and swinging.

When it takes you–pushes you down into the muck and the trash–tears at your throat with those inappropriate teeth–it will not speak, no, not even then. You scream, yes, and your screams echo and bounce off of brick and fire escape and green metal dumpster, but the cat is quiet, the cat hisses and whistles and claws you to pieces.

The cat has everything it needs, but it still wants more.