You look around blearily. It’s nighttime now. You’re lying in a pool of blood wondering how
you failed to kill yourself. Someone is calling out for you — a man’s voice. He’s asking where
you are, saying you need to pack a bag, that you need to leave right now, that he’s going
to take you someplace safe. You follow the sound of his voice and find him standing over
the remains of the dog with his hand over his mouth. When he sees you he starts crying,
screaming “no” over and over again. You can smell his blood from across the room; hear
his fevered pulse. Your stomach writhes in agony as you try to tell the man who looks so
familiar to run away but all that comes out is an awful moan. You can’t control your feet as
they carry you towards him. He takes a gun from his jacket pocket and levels it at your head
telling you to stay back in a trembling voice. You plead with him to do it but it sounds like a
snarl. The gun is shaking as you approach him; tears stream down his face. He doesn’t struggle,
not even when you tear out his throat. Someone in your head is screaming. Someone in your
head cries stop. But someone in your head is shackled. Someone in your head is lost.
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