CPUnk I write right. Right? Aye.

For Hillary with love and squalor

Blood is my name, Blood and warmth. I kill because I can, I kill because I find the slow death of oth­ers enter­tain­ing. I eat my vic­tims, I toy with them in their ter­ror, kill them, and eat their flesh. Some­times it gives me fur­balls. But I am Blood, they call me that here — I am the destroyer. Mice fear me.
My female might be miss­ing.
I was lay­ing by the fire that HE had made for me, warm­ing my mus­cles against the chill of the cold sea­son, stay­ing lim­ber by stay­ing still; when HE started mak­ing it dark every­where. Every night, HE walks through the fam­ily den, cham­ber to cham­ber, and makes it go dark. HE does this to pre­pare the world for my destruc­tion — I hunt best in total dark­ness.
HE goes up to where his kit­tens rest (they are get­ting larger now, should be hunt­ing by now, in my opin­ion) and speaks over them. HE does this rit­ual every night, usu­ally lay­ing his hand on my head as I set­tle in the young male’s nest, reas­sur­ing HIM that I will watch out for dan­ger.
But tonight, HE was unset­tled. HE did not turn the light to dark­ness, HE began turn­ing the dark­ness to light! HE shouted for my female over and over. HE made