Sunshine

'What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger.'

The words were scribbled on the wall. Amongst other inspirational quotes.
I smiled at it.

Always the optimist, the idiot.

I move along, as silent as I can.

The dog looks up at me, his intelligent eyes locating mine.
He puts his head back down, dismissing me as a non-threat. He has seen me before here.

My dress make a swish swish noise as I walk.

He chooses to ignore it, turning his head away.

I'm not impressed.
Aren't dogs supposed to protect their owners?

I should do something about that. 

The sunlight is filtering through the curtained window.

It's pretty late in the day, why hasn't he woken up? I wonder.

Then I remember he liked to sleep in. Like a lot. A lot.

I can see him sleeping on the sofa. The TV is on, playing some sort of movie.
I look at it.
It has women with no clothes on. They seem to be in pain. They're screaming.
I remember that pain. I remember screaming.

I make way to the sofa. 
He's covered up, snoring.
His legs can be seen outside the covers.

I take the knife, stabbing through the covers where his eye would be.

He sits up, bellowing.

I remove the knife and keep on stabbing.
I move along his body and finally I think I've hit where it counts. He is thrashing blindly. One hand hits my chest. I fall down.
He falls down, dead.

I remove the covers.
His eye is bloody. So is his body.

I remove the cover from his body.

He is naked underneath.

I find the instrument he used inside me. It has something white covering around it. It's dry, yet wet. I think it's the same thing he made me eat. I take a lick.
Yes. It's the same.

I take the knife and chop it off, slicing through it slowly.

I find the dog looking up at me. He is curious, I can see.

I feed him a small portion of the meat. Maybe he will keep some part of the body for others to find.

As I walk out, I look at the mirror on the wall.
Blood is on my hand and my knife.
My beautiful pink frock also has blood on it.
The dress is still big for me.
Mother had bought it for me last year. Before she died. I was young then.

I look at the quote again.
I climb up using a chair.

I write below it,
'Until it does.'

I'm happy, but I'm young no more.
He made sure I am not.

As I wash my hands in his sink, I remember to put out a bowl for him.

He'll be thirsty after the meal.