Kennedy was used to raiders

Kennedy was used to raiders.

They came, night or day, cloudy or clear, to the little green valley with the little green creek and made an absolute mess of things. They stole his supplies and trampled his garden and, that once, burnt his paintings too. It never made much sense to him — the little green valley was in abundance, they didn’t need his things. What harm were paintings, anyway? But the raiders always came anyway, and he would hide in the attic, hand over his mouth.

The little green valley didn’t have a name, so that’s what Kennedy called it. Little Green Valley. Nobody else lived here, as far as Kennedy knew. It never made much sense to him; the little green valley was in abundance, and everyone needed these things. 

Why were there so many raiders, for nobody in Little Green Valley? The road through, he supposed; though it wasn’t much of one. Mayhaps it went to somewhere, or from somewhere. Nevertheless, they were drawn to his cottage smoke like flies, and he re-planted his garden twice monthly.

—

The little green valley was in abundance. It never made much sense to him.

—

There was someone sitting there, on his porch.

Cat-black jacket, shock-white hair. An angel from hell. They were asleep, perhaps. Asleep, or resting. His porch.

They were long. Long limbs, long body. Twice his height, it almost seemed. Sleek and long and lanky.

There was something on their face-- no, carved into it, carved into their soul. Blistering, blooming out from one eye, tracing their features. A scar? A scar, he decided, and all of a sudden he felt that searing heat on his face, searing heat and shrapnel. Blooming.

Then the cat-person opened one eye, and caught his gaze, and the two held it in perpetuity.