As I hold these two bleeding eyeballs the window creaks with the concave pressure implemented by the atmospheric change brought upon by the atomic blast one mile away. The house is coated in lead so I don't feel a thing. The eyeless woman at my feet feels something, though. The shrill yapping of her contorted figure echoes through the empty manse in which in live, left to me by my parents after their untimely death. The woman is nothing more than a neighbor girl, and she's wildly defacating on the hardwood kitchen floor, writhing in twisted pains and terror at the slow feeling of having her eyes poked through and plucked out like a cork from a champagne bottle. The two little dogs are barking from behind the gate in their little laundry room as I laugh and cry at the same time at the same sight of the blood from the head trauma inflicted earlier runs through the cracks on the wood floor to the tile floor and into the dogs room where they lap it up and stare at me with a grateful lust for more, and I, exhilarated, jerk off into the sad sockets in her skull, as she lay there, weak from blood loss, until her wimpers cease, and I can finally sodomize her in peace.

Hours later, or maybe days, the empty glass on the coffee table was growing mold in the bottom of it with a fierce vengeance every day. The fruit flies surrounding the gooey apple cores next to the glass danced like fire in a cool evening breeze in the backyard. The clock on the mantle tick-tocked with building anxiety as the dogs lazily sated themselves on the rotting remnants of the eyeless girl. She seemed more intelligent at this point than she ever had before. I sat in awe of my conversion and attempted to inhale the vapors of rigor mortis through the congested sinuses in my head clogged from rampant cocaine use. One dog, the bigger one, grumbled softly and rolled over, all fours high, and stopped breathing. The other dog, the smaller of the two, whimpered sadly as her only real friend passed gas through her bloated bowels. Little dog on hind legs begging for love or consolation from me, I, sick of it all, sat in acid frenzy as the little one licked my face in blind reverence. "Your friend is dead," I explained to little dog, "and there's isn't a thing you can do but eat her." I masturbated vigorously as I watched the hands of the clock move around the circle with the perfect cadence of a metronome, as the minutes turned into hours and my penis began to chafe. The burning sweat from my palms penetrated the raw pores of my member, and I realized the pain was necessary to my growth as a man.

Little dog died of a broken heart, laying next to her life partner, with her nose in between the shoulder and jaw of bigger dog. I shit myself on the couch, pants around my ankles, and t-shirt soaked in sweat around my neck. I didn't care too much anymore who saw me, and I began to enjoy the smell of my own feces. It conjured a sense of place and purpose, life and all the things that matter. It was cleaner than it was dirty, because it was mine, and nothing else mattered.

The clock stopped working at the same time my heart failed, and I lied there under the haze of constant sorrow, until the aperture of my vision faded into white and the tendons in my feet curled up to return me to my fetal position in which I entered this terrible world.


- Andrew Early