<span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: georgia;">It was going to rain again.<br/><br/>The sun was never going to shine.<br/><br/>The colors were never going to be bright.<br/><br/>Cat couldn't remember what they looked like.  Oh she remembered red.  She remembered red because it matched the little spiderweb lines there in her eyes when she looked in the mirror.  She remembered black and blue and yellow, sickly yellow because when she looked in the mirror, there they were, framing the little spider lines that were red.  On white.  She supposed there beyond the pinpricks in the middle there might have been a dash of green, but it was far away and glassy and it could have been blue.  But she wanted to see green.<br/><br/>The grass was green, certainly where it crept up through the broken sidewalks and the mushrooms where they sprang from sewer drains they were beige. But they also attracted bugs and they did not sit very well on her stomach.  It wasn't the same green.<br/><br/>Still the cat knew what grey was, because the sidewalk was grey, it was grey and black and several other shades in between and sometimes she'd have flashes of images drawn against its grainy surface of bright flowers and smiling faces and people made out of lines but...there were no bright flowers here and people did lines and ran lines and stood in lines amongst a faceless crowd that never seemed to notice no matter how loud you screamed...but the people weren't made out of lines.<br/><br/>The people weren't made out of anything.<br/><br/>They were faceless, except for when you looked at them and then it was as if they knew you were looking; suddenly there was a face and eyes, suddenly there was a nose and teeth that were too sharp and hands that always seemed a little bigger than the arms.  But when you looked away...when you looked away they were faceless.  You could see it from the corner of your eye.<br/><br/>Nobody had a face like Cats.  Her face couldn't decide what it wanted to be.  Some days it was pale, pale and the eyes looked, well, they were white, with little pinpricks in the middle and red little spiderweb lines on the white. There could have been blue in the middle.  There could have, but she wanted green.  Her nose was small and dainty and she had a smile that was vicious, that was constant, that was made up entirely of pretend.  It didn't change, like the colors of her face were prone too.  Sometimes she wished she were pretend, too.<br/><br/>If she were pretend there'd be no hands but...if there were no hands who would take care of her?<br/><br/>There had to be hands.<br/><br/>Even when she didn't want to be a kept cat, even when she wasn't.<br/><br/>There had to be hands.<br/><br/>And no socks on the carpet.  No feet.  Cat could walk on her hands.  She could walk on her hands and crawl on her knees and sleep on a dresser because tables were for people and no pets were allowed in bed.  Or she could sleep in the garden, with the roses that never bloomed and the hounds that always barked and no knowledge of how to find the kennels.  Or she could leave.  She could leave where no one could watch her and the twins couldn't see with their fists as mean as their faces and hungry eyes.  She could go back to her box.  She could find the Hare...<br/><br/>She could go back to the box.<br/><br/>There was no biscuit.  There wouldn't be.  It was gone.  She'd eaten it because there wasn't anything else and he'd given it to her. She could never find it again.  <br/><br/>But she could go back to the box and watch the clouds and the streets and the people and try to look so quick she could catch them before they put their faces on.  She could beg for change.  She could plead for it.  She could have all the change in the world...but she would never change.<br/><br/>And there were...noises.  Noises near her box.<br/><br/>Low.  She went low, on quiet Cat feet, with holes in the thick socks that ran up to her knees.  There'd been color there too, once.  But no more.  No more color in the world.  No more joy.  Except when it rained. Or it splattered. Or it broke.  Someone had torn down her box.  Someone had torn down her box and...there was a creature.  She could see its curves, see the hair, see the color.  See the eyes.  They were gold.  There was more, but she could see the gold.  The gold.  And...<br/><br/><em>That's because it's your eyes.  In your eyes that's your worth shining through and you're gold.  You're pure gold, that's how pure you are...</em><br/><br/>"Dormouse!  Mouse!  There's no shoes on the carpet!" The girl called, sprinting forward in a run, in a quick run, all arms and legs, sharp elbows and bruised knees.  With a face that was hidden, a face that couldn't be seen but for the chin, for the lips because the shadows failed to reach them.  For the line that ran down the middle of the bottom, sore, swollen. She ought not poke it with her tongue.  "My mouse!  Hatter's Property!  Hare's!  Nothing's for free without pay!  I'll tell them!  I'll tell them all!"<br/><br/>So her teeth sank into his shoulder; sharp teeth, too sharp.<br/><br/>And his arm sank into her stomach; tender, soft and fragile.<br/><br/>And she landed against the wall.<br/><br/>But he went away and she whispered, "Dori."</span>