When she was a little girl in Poland the woman had the same reoccurring dream:

She was in a field, or wait, maybe she was the field? No, she was just a flower growing in the middle of it. No, she was a cow eating the flower; that seems more correct. A wolf came out of the nearby forest and clamped onto the cow's neck and then ate the cow and she was the wolf too, of course. On her way back to the tree-line of the forest she was also a hunter with a nondescript gun who shot the wolf in the spine and then walked out of the trees to still the kicking animal with a slash to the throat with a nondescript knife. Suddenly a car would jump over the horizon like a cartoon and plow right over the hunter leaving red tire marks as it screeched to a halt, and she was the pretty blond lady that got out of the car with her hand over her mouth and who couldn't quite make sense of what she had done. She wasn't the next thing that attacked the pretty blond lady and left her torn open in the middle of the field (she never got a good look at that) but she was a flower that sprang up from the corpse.

Her mother had thought this an odd dream for a six year old girl to have and told her to keep it to herself.

The woman hadn't had the dream in years, and had in fact forgotten about it entirely, but lately it had come back. She understandably wasn't very happy with this, and she also wasn't very happy with the random daydreams she'd been having ever since she'd started having the dream again. She'd started praying the rosary a lot more.

The girl on the subway across from the woman rarely remembered her dreams, but that night she had a nightmare about a red spider with long thin legs bouncing and moving with precision on a web of varicose blue.

8 Minutes Earlier...

She had some thick ankles, this woman.

"Zdrowas Mario, laskis pelna Pan z Toba..."

Of course, had the girl sitting across from the woman in the sparsely filled subway car not begun her examination from the floor up, she might have first noticed the fact that this fat-ankled woman, with the extensive varicose veins creeping upwards from beneath thin nylon socks, veins like tributaries of ink soaking through rice paper, was intently focused a set of rosary beads gripped protectively close to her chest with stubby pale fingers. As it was, the girl was too intently focused on the woman's ankles to yet examine further up.

"Blogoslawionas Ty miedzy niewiastami I blogoslawiony owoc zywota Twojego Jezus"

The rosary and the surgical precision with which the woman manipulated the beads with her fore-fingers and thumbs would have been a useful clue as to what the woman was muttering under her breath. For the girl however, the alien-sounding language was little more than aural accompaniment to the discomfiting nature of the blue lines, some as thin as thread others thick as yarn, that formed a net around legs until the woman's dark knee length dress thankfully cut off visualization of just where those lines might terminate. Had her complexion been darker the lines could have maybe seemed to coalesce, giving her legs a red or bruised color, but the pale whiteness instead served as a complementary backdrop highlighting the vividness of the blues that from time to time darkened to even purple. Some of the veins submerged slightly below the translucent skin and some looked to have fought their way to the surface and some beyond. One particularly dark vein that twisted around the leg like a vine looked to be as thick as a drinking straw.

"Swieta Mario, Matko Boza, módl sie za nami grzesznymi teraz i w godzine Smierci naszej."

The girl's ankles weren't fat, but they weren't thin. She hoped an unformed prayer to God that they never looked like that.

"Zdrowas Mario, laskis pelna Pan z Toba..."

The woman's mumbling had started off inaudible but was slowly gaining volume.

Next: What is going on with the lady and just maybe... what does this have to do with anything?

John was looking up now.
He couldn't quite process what it was he was looking up at. He stared for who knows how long, dumbfounded. The screaming noises of the pigeon became muffled as its head became engulfed and the frenzied screaming noises of one animal were replaced with the quieter, but no less disturbing, wet sucking sounds of the other's feeding. John suddenly wished that he had been thinking of anything else, anything other than animals having sex, on his way out the door. He did not want to ever have this image rush into his head in the future when he might start to think of ... DAMNIT! In hindsight the noise from out here had been nothing like...MOTHERFUCKER!
Blood was puddling below, no longer just splotching the white and black concrete. Most of the smaller pigeon had disapeared from sight. Tendrils from the thing's mouth were grasping and flailing messily at the remaining pieces.
A pigeon chunk fell loose and landed on John's face, startling him from his slack jawed silence.

John looked down and noticed a different color mixed in with the white spatterings with black flecks that normally covered his doorstep: Splotches of red.

So John was walking out his front door when he heard this something or other above him. There was the issue of the pigeons that were constantly littering his front doorstep with shit, so when her heard the commotion he thought maybe they were fighting. Or perhaps fucking. For all the pigeons out there he had yet to see any fucking in the streets. Maybe they kept that kind of stuff at home. Like people. Did they mate for life like doves or swans do? Were they like cats, biting and scratching and hissing? Like geese who will from time to time rape the shit out of each other(it's true)? He didn't remember. Pigeons probably don't fuck as loud as the something or other that was going on above Johns head. Do pigeons scream? This one did. That's what the something or other was that was going on above John's head. Pigeon screaming. At least that was part of the noise.
NEXT: Why is this pigeon screaming?