But…The dog must die. Dogs die eventually anyway. Sometimes they are killed. Sometimes they kill themselves without intending to. Sometimes they just die a natural death. After having lived a long fulfilling life. But dogs die…eventually.
Yet here I am awaiting my end. Speed dialing the gods of death but all I get voicemail. Even the gods have abandoned me. They always abandon me. Am I not worthy of your affection? Your love? Your forgiveness? Why is it so easy to discard me? Am I not warm enough? Not cuddly enough perhaps? What is it?
I await my demise impatiently.
The wind. It howls.
A shadow follows me in the dark. It stalks me. Watches my every move with malicious intent. I thought I had finally gotten rid of it, but I lied to myself. Either that or I thought if I closed my eyes it would vanish. I was wrong. I’m always wrong. Last night when I slept I felt its long creepy nails scratch my chest right above my heart. Then it plunged the icy tentacles through my skin until I could feel blood ooze down my rib-cage and onto the grey sheets.
“You are mine” it said.
The wind. It howls.
In the middle of a silent night the leaves whistle, and the branches scratch the aluminium roof. The sound produced is as eerie as a score in a Stephen King movie. I can hear her heart whisper words of comfort. I can feel her breathe on my chest as she lies her head there. This is beautiful. I lie there imagining her dreams and a smile spreads across my face because for some reason I believe her dreams are like mine. Her dreams are my dreams. I close my eyes and dream with her.
I was happy they were happy. Or was I? Did something about her affection for the dog trigger me? Ever since she got herself the big white dog she has been spending more time with it and seemingly giving it more attention than she does me. I can tell she loves it. I mean she does everything that I used to with her with it. It’s like I have been replaced. She still makes time for me but it’s not the same. Doesn’t matter how much she insists it is. I guess I will just have to kill that dog.
He wished he could pluck it out and hang it out to dry before setting it on fire. But his heart was his and that would kill him. Would it matter though? How many times has he died anyway? How many people has he allowed to walk into his life and plunge knives in his back every time he bent over backwards for them? If he were in a Game Of Thrones he would have died already. Because in the world of men, those that care are targets for those that prey on such weaknesses. He will learn to death.
She cried. Real tears. Loudly. He sat there confused as she wailed again. He didn’t know what to do so he just sat there with his hand on her waist. Is it something he had done? Something he said? He couldn’t get it. Did he hurt her in any way? His mind was a cesspool of questions all of which he had no answer to. Then she turned to face him.
“Thank you”, she said amidst sniffs. “That was the most beautiful feeling I have ever experienced. I swear I didn’t know a penis would give me so much joy.”
He looked anxious and in a foul mood. Pacing back and forth with gritted teeth when suddenly he stopped. He looked at her with tears in his eyes. He wanted to speak but he could not. It’s like his tongue was too heavy to move. He opened his mouth to say something, but he was barely audible. The lump on his throat was thicker than the phlegm that had built up. He sighed, sat down on the tub chair next to the bed and opened the drawer. “I love you”, he mouthed. Then he put the gun to his head.