It was a night a cat would not slip into,
even after a dose of nip. She was unconcerned. No one in the neighborhood could see her, nor could the dogs or birds. Her frame stayed unseen by all.

"One, two, three," she recites, as she counts her steps. "I was five, I was nine, I was eleven and twenty-four. It's been six years since I was last seen."

It was quiet outside, too quiet for a city street. She was indifferent to this. She had smoked one cigarette, then two and three more. Now it was time to eat. The cupboard in her room was bare -- bare like her bones and hollow like her chest. She sets out for the store half past the noon of night.

Six heavy raindrops fall from her hat to her nose. It is a deliberate rain, like each of her footsteps on the wet stone. She holds her eyes high while darkness creeps around of her. Memories tuck themselves between her fingers and toes. The store is two blocks and four street lamps away. She feels something stir in the air, something that can see her. She sucks in her palms and awaits the arrow.

Just beyond the second street lamp, a triangle of men slides into view. They slice her path in two. One walks in front, two follow his back and three step shoulder-to-shoulder behind. These men see her, like the others did when she was five, nine, eleven and twenty-four. Each of those men stole a piece of her, some above the belt and some below. Undaunted, she heads straight into the arrow.

"One, two, three," she chants, as she marches along. "There are only six steps left between myself and them." She thinks back to when she was five. She clutched a rag doll in her hand as that man tore into her tiny womb. When he was finished, he tossed her into the bushes, still holding the doll. That was a long time ago. Before she learned what it meant to be seen.

The first man in the formation missed seeing her fist. He strikes a metal lamp and falls backward. She plucks the eyeballs from his sockets and stuffs them into her jeans. In two swift kicks, the next two inhale the tips of her boots. After they drop to the concrete, she uses her wooden heel to pop out their eyes. She places each one into her coat pocket.

The last three quiver like a frightened dog. One even slumps to his knees and throws up his arms. She picks up an angled rock and takes out their eyes the old fashioned way. Afterward, she bounces the pupils in her palm. These watchers, she decides, aren't worth keeping. She dumps them in the gutter and leaves the men moaning in pain.

"One, two, three," she chimes, as she enters the store, "that equals six." She nods at the clerk and heads down aisle one.

"Six men that will never see me again."