Three and a half beers into my night and someone is already trying to fight me. I leave, hoping to find some solace from the rain and darkness, and I hear a strange sound. A kitten--someone's pet--left for dead on the side of the road after some ******* hit it and drove off. I could do nothing for it but cradle it in my jacket until it stopped breathing. I dig a hole in the mud and lay it inside, gently, before covering it up with dirt and rocks and saying a silent, soft prayer. Then I smoke a cigarette and go back to the house where the same **** who tried to fight me is laughing about the stupid animal he hit on his way here. I can do nothing but look at him with pity until he notices me and hits me in the face. I feel the blood gushing from my nose and watch as three people try to restrain the guy and yell at him to calm down. I grab my ****, get in my car, and drive away. I roll down my window to have another smoke and realize that someone is right on my *** while I'm doing seventy, honking, flashing headlights, and screaming things at me. The car rolls up beside me, driving level, and I realize it's the same guy, but now he's trying to throw **** into my window. I slam on the brakes and turn down a side road, taking the first few turns I can. No sign of the other driver, so I relax a little--enough to get me thinking. Thinking that if we don't confront our problems and put them to rest, they will continue to haunt us in some way or another. When I sleep, I see kittens nuzzling up to me. When I wake, I'm surrounded by flashing lights and feel warm wetness trickling down my face. And I hear a familiar voice say: "No idea, officer. He was just swerving in an out of the lane. I was a good distance back. The bumper damage must have been from hitting the ditch."
This isn't really prosetry, but I felt it was more of a poem than a short story.