His fingers folded tighter around the curling iron, the origins of which were still unknown to him. A keening mewl reached his ears, and it took him a moment to realize it was coming from his own throat. Fox dropped the iron, a distant clatter reaching his pointed ears. He swallowed heavily, mind still trying to catch up, body shaking with adrenaline, naked and sweat soaked. Someone suddenly pulled on the carpet; Fox felt his knees fail and he dropped to the floor. His knee jostled the iron, the silver curler rolling under the bed. Fox dragged his eyes up the bed clothes to the top of the mattress, icicles stabbing at his insides as he spied what lay atop the sheets.

The liquid contents of a popped eyeball, the slick shine of her delicate cheek bone, fibrous muscle tissue threading apart. She was unrecognizable.

He'd been fucking her; she'd been a gorgeous and stupid sex kitten, college age maybe, there was a beautiful mole underneath her left nipple. . .

Fox vomited, feeling his throat burn as chunks of half digested food sluiced through his teeth, the hot mixture pouring onto the floor in a sickly torrent.

He'd been on the battle field again; tackled, hands pawing at his chest, the enemy soldier atop him, reaching to choke him; but Fox had reacted quickly. Arms snapping up he seized the slender neck, using his strength advantage to pull him underneath, thumbs pressing into the trachea, cutting off a high pitched scream. The soldier flailed, fingernails digging grooves into Fox's upper arms and thighs, knees pounding into his buttocks, trying to throw him off. Fox shifted his weight to his right arm, moving to press his entire paw into the soft flesh; his left reaching out blindly to grab for a discarded weapon, fingertips gracing a cold cylinder. Snatching it up, Fox raised it above his head, the soldier thrashing considerably more when the object came into view. Fox brought his arm down, feeling the cylinder hit, bone compressing for a second before giving way.

Fox shifted from his knees to his hip, body spasming as a disgusted and cracked sob tore through his scalding throat. The incident had passed by in an instant and he was suddenly atop a white cat, face a smear, broken fingernails strung through with his own fur and blood and skin. He'd jumped off, muttering to himself, mind unable to cope with the site before him, feeding it to him in pieces. He wanted to scream, his searing throat allowing nothing but a hiss of air to escape.

Sobbing, he pulled himself into the secure little space between the bed and night table, drawing his knees to his chest.