It was cold, hacking from inhaling ash, and stumbling on a leg that hadn't bothered it in so long it had forgotten it was scarred.

It fled the town as quickly as it could, mind still scrambled by fear. It longed for the deep mountains; to be away from people, who brought it only pain, to exist alone.

The road leading out was lined with funeral pyres, spaced evenly, charred remains still smoldering, for as long as the kitten ran down it. At last it could take it no more, fearing what it would find at the road's end, and scrambled into the brush, not caring when thorns torn at it.

It wished it could die.

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