DEAD DOGS CAN’T FETCH
[DEAD DOGS CAN’T FETCH]
Prologue:
I want to die. I want them all dead; but why do they get to go first? It feels like torture rehearsed, or a poetry’s hearse when we’re in our dog days. A month turned to a year. The years swallowed up the good months, and “I can’t” turned into “I should have.”
“Should have what?” you ask. I guess I’d have to say, “Everything I ever wanted.” Even though I never actually found out what that was. The blood rushed out, and I finally felt enough. A vampire, a cryptid, who am I? It’s cryptic, too much. I long to draw my last breath by the screams, or where the rivers and valleys meet the sunrise. I’m tongue tied on what to say, but at least my lungs breathe and my feet move onto the next night. It’s always “next time” and not right now. That’s a cowards mindset. I wish I could burn the towel, but I can’t surrender. Maybe then they will see I’m not clean, or that I never was what they found out.
You couldn’t even spot me in a crowd. I live the most abnormal normalcy. They dress the same as me, and walk with the same gate. I studied for years on the things in my surroundings. Pain, suffering, stories of the astounding; it all ends the same. So I burn my lessons into the grave, and I cover the lesions on my face. If water cuts deep in smooth soil, then why the long face? Wouldn’t it just make sense to harden up, or is it a hard day of work that leaves you drowning in your fate? Is it the same thing that helps you breathe that causes decay? What do you believe in?
“That’s enough.. I’m done for now.” I voiced aloud as I stumbled away from my keyboard to find my keys. Writing is fun, because it gives me a way to personify the fucked up shit in my head. The type of things I wouldn’t even wish on my worst enemy. In a way that’s me, but most people don’t read anymore so I can send any new character off with a different outcome. A new part of me ripped from the page, just to die before the days in. “Waitttt, I know where I put them.” As I fumbled through the rough draft pile until I saw light reflect. “There’s my keys!” I could finally leave and start a new day. Well new is an overstatement, it’s the same one I’ve lived a thousand times over.
Walk through the door, take a right, walk a few steps to the elevator, and wait for it to come up. Here’s the hard part. Once I’m out of that confined death trap, Rob is gonna ask with that fake ass customer service smile of his, “going out for your morning routine?” and I’ll ignore him. Fuck Rob. I hate Rob. Actually you know what, “Fuck you” I mumbled under my breathe as I begrudgingly strolled through the bustling lobby into the even busier streets.
This is my favorite part, not being able to see for ten seconds as the UV rays travel less than a parsec to my current location. Oh to be blinded from the woes of this world. Then everything’s back.
A million Robs.. Or at least what feels like it. The streets contain a multitude of “different” people, living “different” lives, but somehow they all look the same. Everyone in New York thinks they’re a business person. Just how every author stamps “best selling title of the year” on the front cover, whenever their partner also dropped their “best selling title” that same month. We’re all nobody wanting to be somebody, doing the same things to impress gods who couldn’t even give a fuck about us. We all have our own gods whether we realize it or not. We all worship something. Sometimes it’s relationships, money, pleasure; we all have our demons. Mine just so happens to be the bottle, and I’m late for my date.
It’s ten minutes past eleven and I still haven’t stepped foot into the liquor store. I wonder if they miss me yet? “Excuse me, Excuse me” I say as I bump into the mindless bodies interfering in my path to destruction. I’m almost there. The hefty door jingles as I push it open, and Melody’s voice rings out even louder, “The same as usual?” With my most vocal response yet, a quick nod. Melody was nice. I never asked her name, but it said on her nametag. She rang me up, and I got out of there as quickly as possible. Mission complete, now back to my dark, damp, safe apartment. Safe from any outside interference that is. Just me, myself, and this shitty vodka. Whatever gets me through writing this next book. Whatever pays the bills. In that aspect maybe I am more similar to everyone else than I think.
**SHOT #1:**
** **Maybe this is a good idea.
*SHOT #2:
** **Noooo that's just idiotic, scrap it.*SHOT #3:
** **This is way better.*SHOT #4:
** **Okayyyy I might be getting closer.*SHOT #5
** **No, No, NO. Stupid, stupid, stupid.*SHOT #6:
SHOT #7:
SHOT #8:
Ring, Ring, Ring, my phone yelled out into the eerie silence, and its name was “EDITOR”
“Come onnn, not yet.” I picked up the call as I struggled to wake up and change my tone, “Hey Bill. How are you doing?” Bill obviously wasn’t too well, “BETTER IF YOU’D FINALLY SEND ME THIS ROUGH DRAFT YOU’VE BEEN PREACHING ABOUT TO THE PUBLISHERS FOR MONTHS NOW. You know the deadline was last week right?” silence. Oh he was waiting for me to explain, “Well you see-”
“ACTUALLY I DON’T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT YOUR EXCUSES. YOU HAVE UNTIL TOMORROW NIGHT FOR THIS TO BE FAXED OUT AND ON MY DESK. THIS IS BOTH OF OUR ASSES ON THE LINE. FUCK YOU.”
Beeeeep
Yeah, Bill was pretty pissed. I don't know why, because without me and my book he wouldn’t even have a job in the first place. It wasn’t my fault that at the meeting I got anxious and talked up this grand idea of a story I had. Well didn’t have, and still don't have. I just needed a paycheck, and I figured the words would have just come to me by now. It happened the last time, but this time seems different. No matter what angle I try to write from, the story goes nowhere.
“DEAD DOGS CAN’T FETCH”
Amazing title.
No wonder the publishers ate up the idea, but what’s a title with no story. It’s nothing. What I had was nothing. Just a pile of fragmented ideas hoarded into the corner of my musty room. Cleaning wasn’t a part of my daily schedule.
I picked through them searching for anything, anything at all I could run with. It didn’t matter how good it was at this point I just needed something. That’s when I found it. One of the pages I must’ve done recently. It had SNOOPY written** **in big bold letters, with my shit recreation of a peanuts cartoon drawing right underneath.. I’m a joke. I laughed and maybe cried a little, until I actually got a real idea. It all comes full circle. The first book wouldn’t have ever happened unless I became an alcoholic in the first place. My mom had just passed, and my dad seemed to want to cope by himself. By that I mean in Miami with a new family, away from me. I guess writing and drinking just kinda became my own way of coping. Without either I’d really be nothing, and I can’t get drunk if I’m broke and homeless. That was enough motivation for me. Time to keep writing.
Yeah, so I might have blacked out.
Chapter One:
A great idea. I already had it, I just needed to find the things that made it great. It’s been almost six months since I stopped drinking, and a couple months since my book got published. Since then life has really changed a lot. If you knew the old me you probably wouldn’t even recognize who I am in the present day. My small apartment has become a penthouse suite, and I write all my stories by hand now. That’s because the day I stopped drinking was the day I short circuited my computer; the day of the “royal spill.” That was what really made me stop. The publishers were super impressed by my first draft, and approved the writing process to continue on. I was still a sloppy drunk then, but when my hard drive got fried it gave me a real reality check. I knew if I wanted to ever finish the story something would have to change. It did, and god am I so glad it did.
If I thought my first book was successful, this one blew that out of the water. Stores were wanting me to do book signings, my book was advertised on billboards in Times Square, and even my dad got in touch with me again. It might have been just for money, but still it was a sign I was doing something right. Overall life was good. I was still mostly a hermit though, despite the occasional public appearance. It was for good reason, because I had a newfound fire in writing again. What was originally a coping mechanism, became my main reason to keep going, so I kept my focus in the right place. Onto the next story.
It was something I was super proud of. I can’t reveal too much just yet, but I’m pretty sure it’ll be the best thing you’ve heard from me to date. The publishers liked the idea too. Maybe even better than the last, and this time I actually planned to follow through without all the extra stress I caused myself last time.
I had just comfortably sat down and opened my notebook to finish writing CHAPTER 3 of my new title. Finally concluding the first major story arc, moving into the real meat and potatoes of everything. That’s when I heard a knock at the door. I decided to ignore it since I was busy, it must be housekeeping. Not even ten seconds later though I heard the knocking again, and it sounded like someone slamming a mangled body over and over again into the door. The sound was heavy. Me being a horror writer I had quite the imagination. Just in case it was a crazed fan or something, I waited another minute until I opened the door. Of course I’m not stupid, so I had my phone on speed dial for 9-1-1. I’ve heard of similar things happening before, but I might just be a little paranoid.
Once waiting I opened the door slowly to find that there was nobody there. Whoever it was though left something. There was no shipping box, so it had to have been hand delivered. It happened to be one of my signed copies of “DEAD DOGS CAN’T FETCH.” I decided to peek my head out into the hallway, but saw no trace that anyone had even been there in the first place; other than the book of course. It looked as if someone had tried to scribe their own signature up underneath mine. It wasn’t in any language I had ever seen before though, weird. I threw it away. I have enough of those lying around here anyways.
Chapter Two:
Bill called me on the morning of the 27th. Regardless of what your preconceived notions probably were after our first interaction, me and Bill were childhood best friends. I got him a job as an editor, my editor, because I believed in him. Bill had spent his younger days doing nothing but reading and becoming obsessed with the art of writing. Funny enough I used to bully the shit out of him. I didn’t always have the artistic prowess I have now. I was once an ugly, stinky, little kid that loved to get into any trouble I could. It landed me in detention more times than I could count at school, and left me on my parents shitlist more than double the amount of fingers I could count with. More than a few of those times Bill was in my detention class. I didn’t know why he was there at the time. Part of our punishment was the teacher made us stay silent, and write the same statement as many times as we could until our hands gave out. She had the creative duty of coming up with the statements by herself. By now mine had become a run-on sentence. Miss Farley hated my guts.
I found out years later Bill, the nerdy kid, ended up in detention with me multiple times because he was actually quite the smart-ass. It didn’t matter if he was right or wrong, if he felt he was correct about something he would argue till his face turned blue. It didn’t matter if his opponent on the stand was a teacher or student alike. As my mother would’ve said, “Bill is the type of person to argue with Jesus,” and I would say that’s still holds up today. He grew on me after a little while.
“Hey, where are you at with the new book? Just wanted to toss some ideas back and forth,” Bill proclaimed on the other side of the line. Normally I’d love to talk with him, but I haven’t been sleeping too well these past couple weeks. My creative juices are running out. “Hey Bill so it’s crazy that you mention that, I’m actually in the middle of finishing up this chapter. I’ll have to call you back tonight and let you know where I’m at.”
…
I abruptly hung up, and went back to my very important task of rotting away in my bed. That’s all I’ve seemed to be able to do since the last time me and you wrote. I’m still stuck on CHAPTER 3, “the meat and the potatoes,” but how can I keep writing a good story on an empty stomach? Money isn’t the problem anymore. I ordered groceries, and tried to cook a few hearty meals to get me back to one-hundred percent. Everything I’ve eaten I’ve thrown right back up though. With no appetite, a high fever, and the way I’m feeling it’s probably best I go to the doctor to see what’s going on.
It wasn’t anything that took too long. In a way I was still a vampire of sorts. I hated having to go out into the bright ass sunlight. Leaving the house with a mask on and my lazy house garments, so no one would recognize me. The doctor couldn’t find anything wrong. No strep, flu, or covid, and all my vitals were fine. It’s crazy because when they checked my temperature I was a smooth 98 degrees fahrenheit. He looked at me with a smile saying, “You’re as healthy as an ox,” before sending me right back on my merry way home, with a handful of paperwork.
When I got back to my building was when the real problem arose. There were already police and fire services there with all the tenants and workers evacuated outside. Even with my disguise, they stopped me from entering the building, and asked what floor I was staying on. I responded truthfully. To my surprise they had let me know that there was a small fire that had occurred on my floor with a suspected arsonist on the loose. We could all go back inside once fire rescue cleared the place out. It took about an hour in the smoldering heat of the sun, before we finally got to go back indoors. Apparently, the sun is hotter in cloud coverage. It wasn’t the prettiest day New York has seen, that's for sure.
I took the elevator all the way up to the 128th floor, and smelled the char as soon as the coffin’s doors opened. By the time I got to my room the smell permeated stronger and stronger, causing me to realize the fire was a lot closer to home than I thought. Opening the door I could tell it was definitely coming from my place. At first I couldn’t see what had burnt. Maybe I was so out of it earlier while I was cooking that I accidentally left the stove on? Rushing to the other room, Nope. The kitchen was fine. What could it have been? I finally found the culprit. My brand new shiny bookcase, with all of my writings and other books I was a fan of, destroyed. Literally turned to ash, somehow without spreading to any of the other furnishings in the vicinity. It sort of reminded me of the story from the bible where Moses saw a burning bush, but it wasn’t burning up. It spoke to him. My bookcase might have been Victorian style wood, but it definitely wasn’t any burning bush. Mine ended up as dust on the ground, along with almost every book and idea on it. There were only a few left. All of them being copies of “DEAD DOGS CAN’T FETCH.” I guess it’s a lot harder to kill Cujo than most.
Chapter Three:
Webster’s Dictionary says, “Rabies is usually transmitted through the bite of a rabid animal and that is characterized typically by increased salivation, abnormal behavior, and eventual paralysis and death when untreated.”
Diseases always scared the shit out of me, and so did horror movies. Watching all of Stephen King’s movie renditions, and in particular George Romero’s Night of the Living Dead are the reasons why I am the way I am today. CUJO also had a special place in my heart, and that place was extremely low to the floor. Not necessarily because it was the scariest thing ever, but because I had been bitten on the face a year prior to my first time seeing the film. It was the first true horror that I had actually experienced in real life. So it stuck with me, both the film and the dog cause to this day I despise dogs, or at least the way they would make me feel. Looking back at my childhood I wasn’t too much different than a mutt. I would wallow in my own filth forever if there wasn’t anybody there to tell me that it was wrong. “The crazy kids are dirty, and the cool kids are clean,” is something still in my memory that I picked up from my parents. I can’t really remember which one of them said it though. It might have just stuck with me because, as you know, I was quite the rebellious kid. Kind of ironic, the thing that I hated most when I was young turned out to be what I made a career out of. So maybe I was right to not listen to anyone. All they did was dog me anyways.
That last experience at my home intrigued that childlike curiosity inside me that I’ve missed for so long. No matter how much my brain told me, “Run away, you’ll just end up in flames like the pages you put months into.” That wasn’t something I could do, because now I was curious, and cats always were my favorite animal. I hate that our’s had to run away.
Death brings new life, and there’s no darkness without light. My bookshelf died, and he got replaced just as quickly as he faded away.
“It really lightens up the place doesn’t it?” I attempted to ask Bill, trying to make simple, awkward, conversation. That night I never called him like I said I would, and then I didn't the next, or the next. So validly worried and pissed off per usual, he came by to do a “wellness check” to see what was going on with me. See, I never told him about getting super sick out of nowhere, and very lightly brushed over the burning furniture situation in an attempt at conversation. For someone I’ve known damn near my whole life he’s extremely callous. It took two annoyed sentences from him, before conversation spiraled into work. “Why haven’t you told me anything about this story? Why the hell are you ignoring me? I swear to god if you’re fucking drinking agai-”
“Dude. I’m good. It’s just been a busy couple weeks. I got sick as fuck, and when the fire happened I lost all the manuscripts. You should know by now not to worry about something like that. I fumbled the last book at least two or three times before I got it right, and look at how we recovered. There’s nothing to worry about.”
Bill had a very particular way of seeing through my bullshit, which is what I’m guessing he was doing now. All he said was “okay,” stole my oreos out the pantry, and walked out.
About five minutes later my phone pinged.
(EDITOR:) you better actually let me know what’s going on this time. Thanks for the food.
Guess I gotta respond..
(ME:) you a bitch
*delivered two minutes ago*
*read five minutes ago*
I’ll call him next week.
Chapter Four:
So I decided to start writing down my dreams lately. For the first time in a while, something actually scared me. It wasn’t the fire, or the deadlines, it was literally my own thoughts. I guess I would be the one to scare myself. I may or may not be tweaking but you let me know, because I haven’t dreamt in years. It might just be my brain finally getting prepared to finish this book. So many ideas. I still had all the old ones in my head after all, even if the originals had turned to dust.
Enough rambling though, I’ll just copy over what I wrote down.
Day One:
“I had the weirdest dream last night, well I wouldn't really call it a dream. It was more like I went to sleep but didn’t actually ever sleep. At the very least I know I wasn’t awake. The “dream” literally was nothingness. Like pitch black. I didn’t see a thing, not even myself even though I could feel that I was there. I knew for sure when I felt them breathing on my neck. I woke up.”
Day Two:
“I’m gonna keep writing these down, because if I was unsure about last night being a dream or not, I was definitely positive after what this last one was. It was something. As soon as I faded to sleep I saw myself. Not in an astral projection type of way, like of me in my bed, or on the couch, but more so how it would look if I was in the scene of a movie. It started like I said with me seeing myself, and it definitely wasn’t dark this time. It looked like I was standing directly in front of a clone of me. The clone was laughing hysterically, and crying at the same time, like actually bawling, but had no real single expression on their face. It just pointed forward. As soon as I thought about where it was pointing to, that’s when it started to show me. My point of view slowly started to pan behind the clone, revealing what it was pointing at. It was the building I lived in. Well at least it looked like it, so maybe it was a clone too. It had the same framing and dimensions, but all the walls were glass. I heard voices I recognized from inside, but couldn’t see any faces. They didn’t have those. But they still had a way to vocalize. With their hands stretched out, pointing back towards me, I was forced to watch as these faceless figures burnt up. Even though they didn’t move as the flames engulfed their disproportioned bodies, I could hear them scream. Or at least what I think were screams. I would’ve been able to tell better if they actually had mouths. I woke up.”
Day Three:
“This seems to just be something I’m gonna have to deal with more often I guess. I dreamed again. It was pretty much the same as the night before, so I’ll spare you most of the details. Instead of me seeing random figures burning up, this time it was a bunch of me inside the building. The fire burned blue, and there was no laughing this time, just crying. Every single one of me had a different expression on their face, as they silently burned to ash. In a way it was beautiful. Seeing the steel beams melt and the building shatter on top of that horrible sight. Anything is better than seeing that. I woke up, and checked to make sure the fire alarms were working.”
Day Four:
“It’s dark again like the very first night, but this time there’s a horrible stench in the air and a heat that felt like it was burning my skin. I heard that horrible laughter again, but couldn’t see anybody else around me. I knew it wasn’t just me whenever I felt a breath deep inside of my skull. I woke up.”
Day Five:
“I didn’t sleep last night. I drank coffee until my hands grew stiff, and my brain didn’t want its break. There was too much to do. I started to write again, but when I looked down at the page it was just incoherent scribblings.”
Day Six:
“I didn’t sleep again. I can’t let myself. So much to do that I’ve lost track of how much time I’ve actually been awake. I know it’s been two days of course, but it feels like an eternity. I have a feeling soon my body will have to shut down again. Too much to do. I started to write again. I woke up.”
Day Seven:
“I’m kind of unsure if I actually slept or was awake on night six. I don’t remember going to sleep, but I remember waking up. I have to remember that I always wake up. They’re just dreams after all. I’m gonna get some rest tonight.”
“Update: No dreams tonight, or at least not any that I can recall. I woke up to the start of a new week, and I will not be carrying over any of that negativity into the real world. It’s all fake, just like the real emotions I serve up on silver platters by the spine, the words engraved to eat up by all you filthy swine. All dogs are gonna die, it just might not be today.”
Chapter Five:
Today was a new day. My mind might be a little zombified after not sleeping well for almost a month, but some of the world’s greatest artists have made their best work out of sleep deprivation. I was going to be proactive today, so I called Bill to come over. It seemed like a good idea for him to be here if I wanted to stay on my toes with this story. I wonder if he still had those ideas he wanted to toss back and forth?
Not even ten minutes later he was already knocking on my door. Weird, cause it’s usually a thirty minute drive from Brooklyn to where I stay, but I didn’t think too much of it. I wanted to get some work done anyways, and who better to bitch at me about work than Bill? Letting him in the door, there was obviously something wrong. Instead of him saying a word to me, he beelined straight to the kitchen. I followed and just started spilling what I was thinking about what the plan was going to be for today. He still didn’t say anything to me though. I must have struck a nerve during one of our last interactions, because if he’s REALLY mad he’s not going to speak until he’s ready to strain his vocal chords. Real New-Yorker shit, Bill loved to scream at folks. I wasn’t too far behind when he took a left into the kitchen, but as soon as I turned the corner, there was no Bill.
“Bill? Bill?” I yelled across the spacious apartment expecting some type of response. There was none.
I must have still been tired, seeing things, so I decided it was probably best to grab a glass of water.
Nerves make me sweat, and all I’ve been this last month is a nervous wreck. My guess is that I had to be super dehydrated by now. Grabbing a glass from the cabinet, I went to the fridge to fill up, and that’s when Bill actually called to let me know he would be here shortly. I guess he wasn’t too mad at me anymore. I told him about what had just happened, he laughed and said, “Go ahead and put some coffee on. We’re both gonna need it.” Me and him said our goodbyes, and I figured I’d go ahead and grind up the beans. That's when I heard another knock. I paused what I was doing, and figured I would check it out. My dumbass had left the door open, but there’s only a few people that lived on my floor. They were much snobbier than I was, so I wasn’t too worried about one of them breaking and entering.
As soon as I slammed the door shut, I heard another set of knocks. This time right behind me, coming from my window looking out onto the luxurious skyline. It must have been a bird, but that idea got shut down quickly. As soon as I turned back to the kitchen to finish putting on the coffee, I heard it again. Turning around I saw it, Bill’s lifeless body hung up from what must have been the top floor. Being this high the winds were pretty strong. If I was to scream on the rooftop of the building nobody would hear it from here. I didn’t scream though. I tried, but I wasn't able to. I sat there frozen just trying to make sense of the situation, but that’s when the wind slammed his body back into the glass again like a ragdoll on set. He must have been up there for hours. How couldn’t I have been able to tell?
His eyes were bulging out of his head, about to pop, and his face was like purple Lavender in bloom. The beauty of flowers is that they die quickly, so you have to cherish them while they hold that beauty. If you believe in the afterlife, then you believe there is beauty in death. It doesn’t end, and it never will. Life keeps moving on even after you’re gone. Just like Bill’s mangled corpse knocking against the panes as if to say I’m not done yet.
That’s when I finally heard the scream. His jaw opened wide, as if to reveal a crooked smile before the words that came out proclaimed, “I woke up.”
“WAKE UP, WAKE UP!!” Bill was in my face yelling for me to get the fuck out of the apartment. I must’ve fallen asleep on the couch again. Just another dream. What was very real though was the urgency, because there was another fire, and this time it wasn’t so small. I could see smoke pouring out of the kitchen into the living room where I was at. It was almost like a sentient being itself, infecting the clean air like a parasite. There was no time to grab my things. Bill yanked me off the couch and towards the door as fire rescue burst through to take control of the situation. One of them escorted us down the stairs as quickly as possible, pressing me about how something like this could happen. We had more than enough time to talk, seeing as how we still had a hundred and fifty floors to go down. The perks of being rich am I right? I told him I didn’t want to talk right now, that I was traumatized, and the fireman told me that was fine, “I needed to save my breath for the cops downstairs anyways.”
The long trek down felt shorter than expected. Was I going to be in trouble? Bill didn’t help my concerns at all, because even though he might be similar to a brother to me, right now he looked like a disappointed dad. He definitely thinks I’m drinking again after this.
We arrived at the bottom of the stairs and four cops were already there, waiting, ready like a pack of hungry wolves. They let me know I wasn’t in trouble yet, but they needed to take me in for questioning. I complied, because honestly I would rather be any place than here right now. Why is this happening to me? Me and Bill parted ways, and I hopped in the back of the patrol car. The cops weren’t very talkative guys, and I wasn’t feeling the most outgoing right now anyways. Normally they’d bring me into Lower Manhattan’s 1st Precinct for questioning, but that’s not the way we were going. We were going towards the Lower East Side in Chinatown, not necessarily where I would want to be. So, I decided to ask where they were bringing me. No response, and now to think of it, they have not looked into the backseat once. Maybe they didn’t hear me, I asked again. They took their attention off the road and both simultaneously turned around to face me, foot still on the gas, and hands still on the steering wheel. That’s when I realized they weren’t who I thought they were at all. They had the same dismembered faces as the burning bodies in my nightmares. No mouth, No eyes, No characterizing features at all, but I could feel their stare. Obviously I was freaked the fuck out, so I tried with all my strength to break through those doors, even though I knew I wouldn’t have been the first to try that in the back of a patrol car. I yelled at the top of my lungs for them to, “STOP! STOP THE FUCKING CAR! LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT!” Their attention never faltered once they turned towards me, I looked forward and saw the traffic light ahead was red, and there were already cars waiting to be told when to go.
The last thing I saw was the glass shattering, shooting shards into the bodies of the demonic figures sitting in front of me. We all have demons, and mine happen to be very present. I couldn’t feel my legs anymore, and there was a sharp crack through my abdomen. Lying there silent I had lost my ability to scream, but onlookers watching in terror still had that ability. I heard the sirens already approaching quickly from a distance. My sense of smell was interrupted away from the rot of the officer’s bodies, and instead clung to the sweet smell of Lavender. What would a whole field of them smell like when set ablaze I wondered? Would I have the same crooked smile as the hanging man? Would I have the same curiosity as the cats that I love so much? Or would I step out the fire as a hellhound? All dogs gotta die one day, and I heard there’s a beautiful place where they go. No more pain, no more suffering, just me and the astounding. Will I walk through those gates unscathed, or will the bright lights burn up my face? There’s only one way to find out.
I woke up.