We put down the cat. But it didn't take. I found her alive. I was trying to protect here when a gunfight broke out and she was shot.
She still didn't die.
I was clutching her to my chest, screaming for help, screaming for people to stop trying to kill her. She obviously wasn't as sick as we thought: she kept surviving. I needed to get her help.
I kept wishing for a papoose to carry her in. I lost my clothes, there were strangers everywhere, I couldn't get to a car. No one would listen.
As I crept down a hall to try and make my escape, she didn't feel warm anymore. I felt like I kept dropping her without realizing it. I think she died.
what the fuck, douchebag brain?
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