It was dark and cold where Kourtney Kardashian rested.
Her heart, reanimated from a sting of stray cats.
For two whole days, her body lay at rest.
The time it took, to kick start back into action.
When she opened her eyes, she realized she was resting in a body bag.
Clothed in a white silk dress.
She tried to get out, but her body was locked in a cooling unit.
A dry murmur escaped her throat, but no one could hear her.
And her vocal chords needed warming up.
Kourtney ripped the zippered bag open, pushing on the door above her head.
The tiny fridge door blew open, allowing Kourtney to crawl out.
She collapsed to the ground, violently shaking.
Her muscles pulsed and flexed.
She began to feel a surge inside her like none other.
Her fingernails had significantly grown over the past couple days.
And all her bruising and scars had disappeared.
Her blood quickly warmed up her icy body.
Her stomach twisted and howled.
She needed to eat.
Jumping to her feet, Kourtney felt her muscle mass increasing.
Footsteps, clacked in her ears.
Keys jingled.
Kourtney's ears were violated with mariachi music.
The smell of tuna permeated the room.
Outside the morgue, someone approached.
Kourtney hid inside a closet.
She watched, through a crack, as a janitor entered the room.
He stuffed his face with a sandwich, while listening to a Walkman.
With his back to her, she escaped the morgue.
A man and woman's voice echoed through the hospital hallway.
Kourtney bolted toward an elevator.
The button illuminated the top floor and counted down to the basement.
She waited.
The voices sounded like megaphones.
She spotted an emergency exit, and bolted
Two doctors exited the elevator.
It was unusually rainy and cold for California.
The drops thudded hard against the pavement, deafening Kourtney.
She ran through the streets.
Covering her face.
Screaming.
She couldn't remember anything.
Not her name.
Not the family.
The baby.
Least of all, the suicide.
The only thing she could remember, was her home.
She raced through the streets and jumped into a cab.
The old Jamaican cabbie, demanded she get out.
But Kourtney snapped.
She punched through the divider, smashing it to pieces.
Blood trickled down her fist as she grabbed the cabbie's throat.
She smashed his head against the drivers side window, knocking him unconscious.
Rolling his body out into the street, Kourtney took control of the car.
Driving it toward her memories.
She arrived at her Beverly Hills condo, unsure of its significance.
The front door was locked, but the balcony window was wide open.
Kourtney crouched into a lioness position and sprung herself to the balcony.
Her nails provided grip as she dug them into the building, pulling herself to safety.
Her ears perked up, by the sound of heavy snorting.
She focused in on the noise and spotted Scott Dislik.
In white silk boxer shorts, he did lines of coke off a blond girls ass.
Kourtney approached the couple, soaked to the bone.
Coked out of her mind, the blond turned to Kourtney and smiled.
Kourtney stared emotionless.
Coked out of his mind, Scott fell backwards and hit his head on a coffee table.
He cursed at her.
Thinking she was a zombie.
The blond, erupted into laughter.
Kourtney snapped her neck.
Scott began to cry, pleading for forgiveness.
But Kourtney had no significant memories of Scott.
She cased the bedroom, hoping to learn something.
She stopped on a framed picture of her with Mason.
Suddenly her own reflection caught her eye.
Painful memories of Mason flooded her, causing her to smash the frame.
Scott used this time to try and take her out, but she had gained the strength of ten mothers.
Kourtney slit his throat with a piece of broken glass,
He collapsed to the floor in agony.
A cell phone vibrated under the bed.
This alarmed, Kourtney, who pawed through miscellaneous junk before catching the buzzing phone.
It was a text from Unknown.
It read: As I was going to St. Ives,
I met a man with seven wives,
Each wife had seven sacks.
Each sack had seven cats.
Each cat had seven kits.
Kits, cats, sacks and wives,
How many were going to St. Ives?
Kourtney had no clue what the underlining message was.
She only felt a cold shudder.
Instinctively, she scrolled through the contacts, stopping on Kim.
She dialed.
Hello? Kim answered, but Kourtney couldn't speak.
She wondered who this woman was, and hoped to make sense of these memories.
Unfortunately, Scott was still alive.
He grabbed hold of Kourtney's foot, startling her.
She screamed, kicking his head, clean off.
He was dead now.
She returned to the phone, but the call had been dropped.
Her instincts scrolled to Rob.
No answer.
She had decided to seek out these mysterious contacts by following the addresses listed under their names.
First Kim.
The cab was less discreet, so she took Scott's car.
Google maps lead her toward Kim's Beverly Hills Mansion, which was close to the condo.
She had noticed a tall amazon girl, with similar appearances enter the mansion with trepidation.
Kourtney wasn't going to take any chances.
She crept toward the mansion.
Using her new claws, she learned she could climb the side of the building.
Smashing a window, Kourtney entered the house.
Some excess glass, stuck to Kourtney's bare feet.
Blood slowly trickled across the wood floor, leaving foot prints behind.
Kourtney desperately searched the room for any signs of life.
She tried dialing Kim to see if this was her residence, but instead, called Khloe by accident.
Gimme Gimme Gimme by Abba screeched from Khloe's phone, in the next room.
Kourtney, lept to the window.
Slipping on some blood.
She exited, as Khloe entered.
Kourtney shimmied down the drain pipe, hitting the ground hard with her bare feet.
A bat was launched at her head.
Missing her by an inch.
Somehow her instincts alarmed her it was coming before it was thrown.
Kourtney glanced at her attacker, spotting Khloe.
They shared an exchange.
Shock on Khloe's face.
Anger on Kourtney's.
She ran, chucking the phone into some bushes.
Disappearing into the night.
Kourtney knew she couldn't return to the condo.
And she certainly couldn't rely on others to help her with the answers.
So she wandered.
Following the cat calls from dozens of strays.
Kourtney found her feline friends coming and going from an old mansion on the outskirts of West Hollywood.
The building was covered in thick vines, and looked like something from a horror flick.
On the porch, sat an old woman in a rocking chair.
Hundreds of cats, cuddled up to her as she silently stared at nothing.
Kourtney approached her.
Who's there? The old woman cried out.
But Kourtney quietly studied her.
Cats lept from her lap, as the woman reached for her cane.
She rose, revealing to Kourtney that she was blind.
Kourtney watched as the old woman tried finding her way back inside.
Pity washed over her, as she approached the crony.
The woman swung her cane at Kourtney, striking her leg.
What do you want? The woman hissed.
Instantly, the cats left the old woman's side, and tended to Kourtney's wound, lapping the blood up.
The woman's nose twitched, as she sniffed the air.
Come here, she demanded.
Kourtney approached the woman.
She, ran her fingers along Kourtney's face.
She sniffed her neck, and tasted her blood from the wound she inflicted.
The old woman purred, leading Kourtney into the house.
Kourtney resisted.
Come, now kitty, the old woman insisted.
You're my sister now.
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