The Last Straw

NoteThis is a first draft. I will continue to update the story on the site as I edit it!

He just snapped.


He’s never snapped before, but he did this time.


All the years, all the walks, all the trips to the park meant nothing. I merely disciplined him for being too loud like I usually do——like I’ve done hundreds of times. But he’s never bit back at me. Never. Fucker nearly ripped my hand off. But it didn’t stop there.


Now all I can see is my white ceiling. I don’t have the strength to move anymore. It feels like I’m being burned alive from the neck down. There’s this searing stinging coming from all over my body that I would give anything to stop. The pain is more agonizing than I’ve ever felt in my life, and I sliced my hand open on my second day as a butcher——that hurt like a bitch. But it was nothing compared to now. And I know the pain won’t stop, because I’m splayed out helplessly on my hardwood floor like feast for Buster, and he’ll just keep on eating. 


The whole underside of my body is warm and sopping wet. I know why, but I don’t care about that.


“Heeeelp,” I grunt weakly. 


Nobody heard me. All I get in return are the continuous growls from my friend turned murderer. I can’t even lift my neck enough to look him straight. If I cast my eyes down, all I can see is a massive brown blob eviscerating my body. But I wouldn’t dare look down again, because when I did, I got a harrowing look at the damage Buster had done. My wifebeater was torn to shreds, and so was the entirety of my belly. Warm blood poured off the mountain of mangled skin and intestines in all directions. Now, I’m looking straight up, and that won’t change for a goddamn thing.


“Mwaaaaah!” 


My scream is muffled by the blood and saliva that riddle my mouth. The sickening scent of iron invaded my nose, and it’s all I can smell now. Tears fall down the sides of my head as I contort my face, wincing through the pain. Never in my life have I felt so helpless, and never will I feel anything again.


Yeah, I treated Buster tough. I hit him and made him miss a few meals, but that was only when he was misbehaving. It’s what my parents did to their dog, and they never had any fucking problems. Hell, it’s what my parents did to me, and I turned out fine! The best form of love is tough love, and I showed Buster all the love I could. But this——this is nothing but pure, intense hatred.


I muster the effort to try one last time to push Buster off me. I didn’t think it possible to get any worse, but as I lift my arms, the pain skyrockets. I bring my hands to Buster’s body, which stands at my side, and only now realize that my left hand isn’t there anymore. All I can manage is a little tap before my arms fall back to the floor and splash up the puddle of blood beneath me.


Let’s do a quick checklist. I know most of my left foot is gone, but I’m pretty sure the right one is untouched. Both my legs are split open in several different places and my whole stomach is lacerated, like a serving bowl for entrail soup. My left hand is full off, and I think the right one is missing fingers, but I don’t quite know how many. 


That’s just what I remember happening, though. Now, everything is congealed into one huge mass of searing torment. I can’t tell if I’m getting new wounds anymore. It’s like the burning of the reaper’s blanket as it’s being pulled over me, and it’s about to reach my head.


I try to put together one more scream, but it just comes out as a feeble groan.


I just wanted him to be a good dog, that’s all. I wanted him to stay quiet and listen to me and protect me. Not in my most putrid nightmares could I have imagined it would turn out like this. Me, as a rag doll on the floor, with Buster’s sole intent to suck the last wisps of life from my body. And by God he’s fucking succeeding.


Now, I can barely keep myself awake. I must have lost about a gallon of blood, and the pain is too much to bear. At least it’ll all be over soon. I have no wife and no kids, and no friends. All I had was Buster, the iron paw by which I’m meeting my end. But at least I know that they’ll come in here and find me and they’ll shoot the fucking mutt dead in the brain and make him pay for this.


I close my eyelids and prepare to die. Before I do, though, I manage to assemble one last ounce of strength and re-open them again. But it’s still dark. 


Why? 


Then I realize: I’m staring straight into Buster’s mouth as his vehement jaws enclose my face. 


Then, nothing.

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