The woman has fallen.
She lies broken and pale on the snow. Her black blazer has fallen open, her white shirt is almost the same color as her bloodless skin. Her head lies at an angle she could never have managed when she was alive. Her broken spine gives her a catlike new flexibility. There is a thin trickle of blood running from her pale lips onto the white white snow. She is so beautiful lying there broken, so pale against the pale, so clean and clear, more pure than she could ever have managed when she was alive.
Look again.
Beneath her sensible black skirt her urine and shit are seeping through into the snow. One of her sensible black heels has come off, beneath it the delicate bones of her left foot are broken. Beneath her skull grey is soiling the snow, tangling her dark curls in its exit from a small new hole. Her jaw is fractured in three places, her mouth is open a little in a new sideways manner. A crust of blood and tears is filming over her pale blue eyes. What would she see, if she could see, that she could never have seen before?
The cats begin to gather.
The first one licks her face, darts away as though shocked by a circuit closing between wet tongue and cold body. Another comes, licks, darts away, the first returns, more gather. Their licks, tentative at first, become more fierce, begin to move her face, become bites that pierce and jolt her body. One of the cat licks her open eye, drawing salt from the membrane, drawing blood and tears from her body.
There are more and more cats, they swarm over her, touching and fleeing, leaping and biting and scratching. Her mouth falls open more, falls open with the new flexibility of fracture, falls open farther than it ever could have, before. Now their tongues and their paws, their tails and their lithe bodies are entering her mouth, her body shakes, her body begins to vomit.
There are many little tears in her white shirt, there are many little tears in the pale flesh beneath it, the tears in her skin have begun, impossibly, to bleed. One of the cats darts over to lick, to bite a pale nipple. They are swarming, they are drawing blood and milk from her body.
One of the cats has wormed a way beneath her professional black skirt, it nips at her thigh. They are tearing their way into her skirts, there are raspy tongues licking her lips open, there are rough tongues and furry paws and fierce claws pulling her open.
They are swarming over her foot, pushing it into an angle she could never have managed if she were alive. They are tearing at her toenails, they are ripping them into ragged claws, they are pawing at her hands and turning them into something new.
Her body is shaking beneath the assault of the cats, her body is crying and puking and bleeding and now her body is rising. She can do all kinds of things she could never do if she were alive. She could prowl and you would hear the bones scrape, she could speak new words over the grinding of her broken jaw, she could leap and twist herself into positions so natural on a cat, so strange on a woman.
She can think all kinds of things she could never think if she were alive. Right now there is one thought in her new mind. She didn't just fall.
She was pushed.
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