Cruelty - A short story

Thomas removed his bike helmet, uncoupling the strap around his chin as the bicycle at his side toppled over unsupported by the kick stand.  His eyes were locked to the sight in front of him as he let loose the helmet from his fingers letting it role down the small embankment at his side to join the bike which was slowly sliding down the sound of loose stones clanking against it in resistance.  One step after another he took forward.  His eyes glued to the sight in front of him, and when the sight arrived at the tips of his toes he knelt down and covered his mouth with his gloved hand.
The cat was dead.   Mangled under the tires of a passer by.  This was not done by an automobile, but clearly the work of a fellow cyclist.   The poor thing looked onward as if hoping for one of it's nine lives would bring it back to the land of the living, and Thomas knew that this wasn't true.  The lifeless body of the cat reminded him of his childhood pet Mr. Tumbles who had wandered into the road when Thomas was eleven.   The puppy was a pure bred German Shepard, and Thomas had brought it outside with him against his father's instruction.  Thomas was convinced he could control the beast, but when a passing dog darted across the intersection alongside Thomas' house there was not much that could be done as the playful puppy gave chase.
A few tears gathered up in the ducts of Thomas' brown eyes and he took the hand that covered his mouth and patted down the fur of the victim.  It's body had been there for quite some time, hard and cold.  Flies had already began swarming around it, no doubt already laying their eggs upon it's corpse in the sweltering summer sun.  Without thinking of disease Thomas lifted the animal into his arms, and made his way down the embankment that his bike and helmet had gone down and he found a soft spot in the earth.   He placed the body down and dug furiously with both hands as he thought upon the numerous people who must have walked by on foot, or road by on their bikes, skates and boards.  The numerous people who saw the corpse of a living thing and left it to be stared at and mocked in the light of a cloudless sky.   He dug quicker scooping out dirt all about him, and when he was satisfied with the depth he placed the victim inside the hole, and covered it.
When he was finished he removed his dirty gloves and laid them atop the sand mound to serve as a marker for the animals grave; after which he retrieved his helmet and walked his bike back up to the bike path.  He didn't have the strength to continue on with the ride that he had barely commenced so he turned back toward his home, and road the few minutes back.  His thoughts continued on, trying to place faces that he'd seen on the pathway, anyone that regularly took the time to exercise or commute through the cemented passage.  There was no one in particular that he figured could do such a thing.  It had to be someone new, someone who purposely murdered an innocent life, a monster fresh to his paradise now polluted with this travesty.   He was becoming bitter, and angry beyond reckoning, and he had to figure out who the assailant was.
Then he thought about the family of the animal, the children who teased it, the parents who fed it, and all who loved it.   It was a young caught, barely an adult.   In his mind's eye he saw its orange striped fur, its little pink nose.   In his mind's eye he saw his poor little puppy through the eye's of his eleven year old self.   He hated the man who had hit him.  An old man grey in what little was left of his hair, wandering eyes full of tears.   The man was heartbroken, the man had said he loved animals, but Thomas couldn't see it, not when his friend was gone, at the hands of the old man.
When he arrived back at his home Thomas didn't kiss his wife or respond to her when she asked why he was back so early, instead he sat at his computer desk.  He had left his helmet on on purpose as he brought up his browser, and he typed in words, and he searched for cat murderer's but nothing came up.  Not in his area.  Surely the person in Florida hadn't made their way to western Michigan to slay a cat on an obscure bike path.  There were cases in neighboring cities as well, but nothing close enough to commit to a connection to his incident.  He pushed himself up violently from his chair, and his wife made a comment, and even hollered after him but Thomas did not care to respond, did not hear her.  His rage was absolute.  The poor animal bewildered at it's sudden demise, the sweet little whiskers never to twitch again.
Then he thought about the humane society, he thought about the unclaimed felines crying and begging in those cages.  Animals that did nothing wrong but only what nature had intended.  He saw the hands pressing in the needle and he saw the sleep take over, and then the nothing.  The stillness.
That was all Thomas could see, and it was poisoning him down to his core.  It frightened him, the stillness, it scared him out of his wits.   The animal probably felt it come over him, probably felt the stillness creep up as it slowly froze.   Like a human being might feel in the final moments, like air being squeezed out of a bag.   Like ice creeping up to consume them.
Outside he walked to the neighbors and pounded on the door.   He demanded they tell him if they knew who had done it.  They told him to screw off, and slammed the door in his face.  To the next house he went, and said the same things.  He had to know the truth, he had to bring justice.  If he didn't do it, who would?  He went on a few more houses, and the answers were still similar.  He tried to restrain his rage, but it was too hot to hide.
Soon he had walked his entire block.   It was then that he decided to return to the path.  As the cellphone in his pants pocket vibrated he didn't bother with it.  He knew it was his wife, and he could not speak to her or show his face to her again until he saw this finished.  When he came to the spot, the sun had come down, and the moon was in it's phase, and he sat down.   In the center of the bike path he sat, staring at the blood stain on the cemented walkway as it was illuminated in moon light.   He nodded off only for a couple hours and as the sun came back up at dawn he rose to his feet.
One commuter came by simply walking, she tried to avoid eye contact with him as he stared her down hoping to see the guilt in her eyes, or in her stance.  He asked a few questions, following her only for a moment, until she relinquished that she didn't know anything about the cat, only that she had seen it on her walk home from work.   He didn't apologize after he was finished with his inquiry he simply returned to his spot.  The next to come were a couple skateboarders, they hurled a couple insults at him, and when he frightened them back grabbing on his friends by the arm forcefully they panicked and hollered that they didn't know what the hell happened to that cat.  And Thomas believed them.
It was a few more after that a lone biker, a boy maybe of seventeen.  Who was walking his bike slowly that Thomas immediately placed the blame.   This of all people had to be him, but when the teen reached the spot, he simple looked around and up at Thomas and said, "Where's my cat?"
"It was yours?"
"Yes."  The boy admitted.
"How did it die?"  Thomas asked.
"I did it.   I had to."  The boy said.
Thomas felt the hairs on his arms stand on edge.  He felt the muscles in his arms tense, he felt the hatred building up inside of him and through his teeth he begged, "Why?"
"I don't know," the boy said, "I just had to."
Before he realized what was happening Thomas had his helmet off from his head, and he smashed it into the boys face.  Teeth fell to the path scattering about their feet, and the boy was falling back smacking the back of his head against the ground.  Thomas wasted no time, and like a rabid dog unable to control it's aggression Thomas brought his helmet down hard, several times.  As only the wrist in the once alive teen's body twitched, Thomas felt a sense of relief come over him as he straightened himself up and returned back home.