《The Dog》


 Friday

    Friday


    I sat in the hallowed out Chevy, wherein only an ashtray and a single front seat remained under a rusted dismantled framing. It sat at the back of our drive way, nearer the barn than the house and the tractor. The ashtray was all filled with cigarette butts, covered in ash and dirt, but I¡¯d cleaned them off, put them to my lips and inhaled stale smoke, time and again, until all that remained was soot and burned up matches and the smoky caramel smell of burning filters.


    Of course I inhaled. I might have been a little girl, but that didn¡¯t mean I was so stupid I didn¡¯t know how to smoke. That was the first thing my older brother Charley had taught me about smoking. You breathe in, deep. I didn¡¯t even cough anymore, but I was running out of butts in the Chevy, and in the overflowing ashtrays around the house. Stealing them from Mom was easy, on account of how she passed out, leaving half-smoked cigarettes all around the house. Only I¡¯d not seen her since the night before, and Charley took the few bucks and cigarettes she¡¯d left on the table, and he tore off shortly after she did. He was under strict orders to babysit until she came home, but Charley¡¯s favorite thing is breaking orders.


    I wish he would come home.


    The summer is dry and the grass is disappearing in some parts, yellowing in others. I am glad for it because it means I can play in the whole yard. In spring, no one had bothered mowing, and the grass got so high that it grazed my calf. Snakes hide in grass that long, and I¡¯m afraid of snakes. Even garden snakes can grow long and hiss and bite if they feel threatened. With summer fully set in, I could mill around the yard without fearing the terrible creatures; I crawled across the rusted front end, and landed with a thud in the gravel drive, and watched as rock dust kicked up around my flip flops.


    I wandered in the dry parts of the grass, and hummed to drown out the sounds of my growling stomach.


    No one is going to come home and make me lunch.


    It would have been nice to have something other than Top Ramen, but there wasn¡¯t much else, and I always mucked up the mac and cheese.


    Because the electricity was shut off in the house, I boiled noodles on our only working appliance. The stove is gas. I know what gas can do, so while I waited for the water to boil around my noodles, I played with the other burners. I let the gas build around them and then cranked the ignition, lighting the burner, and watched as blue flames jumped into the air, burning up the gas that filled that spot. It isn¡¯t the fire so much that entertained me; it¡¯s the noise, the burping sound gas makes as it¡¯s burned up. I mimic that noise as I finished mixing the water and flavoring.


    ¡°B-plough. B-plough.¡±


    I ate lunch on the back porch, and stared out at the woods beyond; a frightening place my mother and brother had warned me never to go. ¡°The neighbors across the street are devil worshipers.¡± Charley whispered. ¡°They put on black hoods, and cross onto our property to get back to the woods, and then they sacrifice animals to the devil.¡± We were watching for them out the window, but they never made an appearance. ¡°What sorts of animals?¡± I asked. ¡°Cats and dogs; mostly.¡± He answered. ¡°Sometimes, rabbits and lizards.¡±  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    The sun frequently entered my eyes, as it hung suspended just above the horizon. I blink, turned away, and then looked out again. Dancing along the edge of the woods was a blurred, white apparition; a fluffy cloud stirring around a hazy tangle of trees. The specter moved slowly in and out; the trees and the creature were blurred and wavy from the heat. It danced with the prospect of our yard, until I set down my empty bowl, which disturbed the unsettled quiet that seemed to be melting my surroundings. The creature stood still, sensing me from over a quarter mile, and I shut my eyes tight begging it to be gone...


    Please, please, please come home, Charley.


    Upon opening my eyes, the apparition was gone, and yet I was not flooded with a sense of relief. The hairs on my arms stood on end, and the squawk of a turkey vulture sent me flying indoors. My brother said the woods were haunted, but until that moment I didn¡¯t fully believe it.


    I wished my mom would come home, but I wished Charley would come home more because Charley would pay attention to me. Charley took care of me better, and both of them knew it, and it had been a source of contention in the past; Charley going toe-to-toe with her before she took off for a bar or a friend¡¯s party. He¡¯d scream that she was a terrible mother, and she¡¯d hurl back an insult or throw her last few bucks at him and storm out. He¡¯d pocket most of the cash, but leave a dollar or two for me on the table. There wasn¡¯t no dollars left behind this time; not that there is a store near enough to walk to anymore. All the businesses seemed to have moved away at once, closing their doors for good and boarding up their shop windows.


    I laid down for a nap in her bed. When I woke up, it was dark in the house, and it was so dark outside I couldn¡¯t make out where the windows might be. I had to light a candle, and burnt my thumb against four matches before one stayed burning long enough to transfer flame to wick. The house is still empty; I struggled to remember exactly when they¡¯d left and couldn¡¯t.


    Even though I could tell by the house¡¯s complete silence, I still called out for them as I crept down the hallway. I stalked from room to room, standing just outside their bedroom doors and calling in ¡°Charley, are you there? ...Mom?¡± I was ten years old, and despite being on my own a while, I¡¯d not grown comfortable with the loneliness. I shoveled my fears down deep where they belonged, but on dark summer nights, when the house was so humid it felt as though your insides were frying on a cast iron skillet, fears manifested in the form of fever dreams; monsters hiding in the shadows of a big house with all the bills left unpaid, so there wasn¡¯t a switch to scare away the nightmares.


    I wondered if my senses had failed me when I heard a rustling on the back porch. Racing, I threw open the back door, half-expecting to see my mom sitting there among her friends, passing a pipe between them. Or, it could be Charley, watching the few stars that were visible beyond the cloud coverage. It wouldn¡¯t rain, but it wasn¡¯t a blanket of stars either. It wasn¡¯t them; it was fear that confronted me. A menacing white dog had his face stuck in my leftovers, but looked up as I pulled open the front door. His body was a mix of white fur; with black just around his neck and haunches, and his eyes were a panicked yellow. The screen was the only protection between me and his emaciated body; despite his failing health, ribs visible even under a blanket of fur, he was a danger to me; I understood that. He hunkered low to the ground, his eyes like two yellow crescent moons, unblinking and following me as I took a step back. A low growl picked up in his belly.


    ¡°Shh¡­,¡± I whispered. ¡°You can have that noodle juice. Glad I left it for you. No need to growl. I got more. You can have it.¡±


    He was a fucked up old dog; that¡¯s for sure, but he was the only living creature I¡¯d seen in some time. I felt sorry for him, so I shut the big door, and headed into the kitchen to grab a can of Spam. Upon my return, I found the back porch empty. I was cautious, and thankfully the dog didn¡¯t return to bite the hand that feeds. This gave me a small amount of hope. I left the food, and put out some water before returning to my mother¡¯s bed.

 Saturday

    I woke up early Saturday morning drenched in sweat and near delirium. On repeat, all night long, I¡¯d dreamt that the front door was opening up to all manner of strangers. They dropped their large skulls in front of my face; their eyes white circles of light. They examined me. Theirs were the distorted faces of dream people; all hallowed eyes, and droopy melting noses. I wanted to talk to them, to move to shake their hands, but my dream had forced me into a catatonic state. I only knew I was truly awake when I was able to sit up and shake the dizziness from my skull.


    The front porch was empty, but the Spam had been eaten up and the water drank; or, it dried up in the sunshine. Even at seven in the morning, wavy lines floated above broken blacktop, and it got hotter with every hour that passed. I put out the last of the Spam and more water in hopes that my furry visitor would return. I kept thinking a dog is the perfect cure for loneliness, but he didn¡¯t show himself and he wasn¡¯t in the woods because I went near them and called for him.


    I spent the first half of the morning climbing over the rusted out Chevy. I pretended I was a boy and that the Husky was my dog, and that he was trained to rustle grub in the woods. At noon, I ate Top Ramen and spooned my leftovers over the Spam. All day I kept my eyes wide hoping he would return, but he was there all along. Watching me from inside the barn. One of the doors stayed wedged open on account of a bad hinge. He lay in there, between the two doors. He didn¡¯t have rabies. I know a dog with rabies. He¡¯d have foam sticking to the sides of his snout, but he didn¡¯t. He was just a dog, fearful of bigger people and just aching to take a bite out of a smaller one, just to show he could. He crept out, staying low to the ground. I met his eyes and the fur on his back shot straight up. There was a mean look in his eye, and his irises grew smaller as his bodied hunkered lower to the ground. His irises shrunk until there was just white and nothing more. It was then that I start second guessing whether I wanted a dog or not.


    The Husky reared from his crouched position. His thin, black lips pulled gaunt in an elongated snarl that showed glistening sharp teeth. His face squished up, making his eyes look like two crescent moons. Before I could turn to run, he leapt up and knocked me backward. It lasted only a moment, and then he was gone; he rushed back toward the woods. I lay there under a blazing sun clutching my right arm.


    It doesn¡¯t hurt, I thought, before drifting off.


    Blood lay in streaks around me like a giant Spirograph, all thin red lines and splashes. Its stickiness covered my face. Despite the sun beating into my eyes, I blacked out completely.


    I awoke to find the bitter sun had left me blistered and burned. My eyes shot to the big barn, but under the glaring sunlight I couldn¡¯t tell if the Husky waited there. The pain in my right arm radiated throughout my body, from the crown of my head to the tips of my toes. My face stuck to the coagulated blood that dried up on the gravel. It stung to peel myself away from the stones and dirt. It took a great effort to pull myself into a fetal position, and pull my body around and off my right arm. I covered the wound with my left hand and began to cry. I couldn¡¯t see the bite because there was blood in my eyes. I touched it, feeling around to see how bad it was. I fingered six puncture wounds and a gash about a half inch thick. My left hand returned covered in fresh blood.Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    I felt woozier than the time I drank two Old Milwaukees in the barn with Charley. I had to pee, but I knew I could hold it if I could just get to the house. I rolled to my belly, and fought through the pain until I was kneeling in the gravel, my head toward the sun for the first time in what must have been hours. For a single moment, I felt the liberation of relief, like a battle-weary soldier steps from his basecamp; until, waves of nausea cascaded down my body and I lost control, flopping about in rubble like a fish out of water. I fought to keep myself from passing out again. I wiped the blood away, and willed my eyes to stay focused on my white two-story house with the back porch so small it looked about a million miles away.


    I looked all around me for the Husky, afraid that he may come back and nip my throat, finish me off. I used my one good arm to push myself off the ground again. My right arm swung forward rather aggressively, as though it was no longer my arm to control. The bite had given my arm a will of its own, but unfortunately its pain was a never-ending, intense throb that I could feel, a pain surely all mine, and that only worsened when it swung underneath me. Despite wanting to collapse a second time, I pulled myself into a crawling position. The wound was bleeding fast and heavy, looking like spilt raspberry preserves. Despite every effort to stay in a crawling position, I fell hard, but stifled my screams lest the dog return. I lie in the dirt and gravel wincing in silent agony. More than the pain in my arm, I feared that dog. I feared it would come back to bite me again, especially if it knew I wasn¡¯t strong enough to fight it.


    I crawled and collapsed many times on my journey back to the house. I took two involuntary naps before I found myself at the back door finally reaching up for the handle. My blood drenched the linoleum in a grotesque trail of blood to the yellow polyester curtains covering the window above our kitchen sink. They hadn¡¯t been taken down for washing in some time, so they were caked in a layer of dust and grime. I did my best to shake clean what I could from the one I¡¯d yanked down. It wasn¡¯t clean, but it was the only fabric I had to wrap around my wound. There was rock dust covering my entire body, but I couldn¡¯t see the bite to be certain what exactly had made its way in through the holes in my body.


    The dining room floor made my bed for the night, and I fell asleep sobbing and praying for God to ease my pain. I wished for the strength to get off the floor; to be magically whisked away to the upstairs bathroom where I could take a piss and wash my body. I wished for Charley and my mom to return, but I got no answer and no strength filled my failing body. Instead, I fell asleep in a pool of blood and urine that tormented my nostrils even in deep sleep.

 Sunday

    I am swimming in a warm creek under a hot sun. Storm clouds appear in the sky with a sudden ferocity, and a silver lightning bolt breaks free from a fluffy grey mass. It cascades down, striking me hard in the top of my skull. It zaps my entire body, shaking me, before tearing through the flesh of my right arm. A dog howls in the distance. It reminds me of laughter.


    I awoke sometime after midnight with wet pants. I¡¯d pissed myself again. I waited for my eyes to adjust to the shadows. There was a fat moon on and it showed through the window enough to light my way. For the first time, in over twelve hours, I was able to stand up. I used the seat of a chair to assist me. I started to topple under a barrage of lightheadedness, but caught myself on the chair¡¯s back. I took a moment to allow my brain to stop beating the drum of a thousand horse hooves, and declared out loud that I needed to wash. It was strange hearing my hoarse voice fill the empty room, but I felt that stating it out loud could lend some power to the moment. It could help me reach the bath, and wash away what I¡¯d decided were murderous grains of dirt worming their way deeper into my wounds. If I could cleanse the wound, perhaps some of the pain would subside. I had to figure a way upstairs to draw a bath, but upon reaching them the task seemed more than impossible. It was frightening despite the stair¡¯s familiarity. I¡¯d been climbing them since toddlerhood, and yet they were currently unknown to me like a friend returning from camp after a watershed summer.


    ¡°Don¡¯t be a baby.¡± I whispered in Charley¡¯s voice. ¡°Get up those steps, girl.¡±


    A fresh shot of pain radiated from under the dusty curtain, but it got me moving. I used the railing to hold my balance and made it to the landing. I would have cheered, but bile filled my mouth and I choked instead.


    ¡°Almost there.¡±


    I wiped spew from my mouth.


    ¡°I can make it.¡±


    Only I didn¡¯t make it. I slipped in my own vomited bile, and that catapulted me back down the stairs where I slammed hard into the wall. The impact caused me to piss myself again. I was covered in dirt, vomit and three bladders worth of piss. I¡¯d been called white trash all my life, but until that moment I¡¯d never felt like white trash. I¡¯d always known that I was clean, despite what anyone said.


    ¡°I¡¯m not clean.¡± I cried. ¡°I¡¯m covered in piss and if I can¡¯t make it up the stairs soon, I¡¯ll be covered in the number twos too.¡±


    I couldn¡¯t stomach the thought, and felt bile coming up in my throat again, but that time I was able to swallow it back.


    I woke up on the worn upholstered armchair not sure how I got there. It was pushed across the room to an alternate window, where the sun beat down on it. The seat faced the glass, giving me a perfect view to look upon our quiet street.


    Did I push this across the room?


    I took to waiting for Charley because that was the obvious point of placing the chair in that spot under the one window that gives me a perfect view of who is coming and going. The minutes turn to hours and Charley doesn¡¯t return even after the sun lifted itself to its midday position. My eyes were growing heavy, but something told me that sleeping, after not eating all day and having a bloody wound on my arm, wasn¡¯t such a good thing. I fought to stay awake, but it was impossible to tell by the blinding sun how much time had passed.You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    My eyes are green, like Charley¡¯s, and somehow that is the first thing I saw. I saw his green eyes, like two emeralds, floating and bouncing through the front yard. His body came into focus, and I could see the recognition in his familiar eyes. His smile elated me. I couldn¡¯t return his wave, on account of my right arm being useless and that I was leaning on my left one. He looked beautiful in the sunshine, with pearly white teeth and pink fleshy lips. He wore a fake diamond earring and I could see that glistening in the sunshine too.


    My hero, I wish you would break into a run.


    Only he continued to walk at a snail¡¯s pace. From behind him the sight of two white globes punches me in the gut. They are the white eyes of the hellhound. That Husky had made his way onto my front lawn and had the dark intention of hurting my Charley on his way to rescuing me. I needed to warn him. I fought through the pain and balled my left hand into a fist with which to pound on the glass. The sound is weak, no more than a dull thud. Charley continued on, oblivious to the monster behind him.


    The Husky had grown in size. He was nearly twice his size from before. He hunkered low to the ground intent to attack. I screamed louder and beat the window harder, but it was too little too late. And my sounds were muffled as though I was making them through layers of fabric. The Husky lunged at Charley from behind and chomped so fiercely onto his shoulder he ripped Charley¡¯s arm from his body. My brother¡¯s handsome smile stayed frozen in place. Captured for all eternity was his affection for me, his smile like rigor mortis didn''t fade in his final moments. His cathartic eyes met mine, and I momentarily yelled for help before realizing my brother was dead beyond what an ambulance could provide, and more shouting on my part would only alert that damn devil dog and send him hungry to finish me off. Besides no one would hear me. My hyperventilating caused me to propel backward out of the chair where I landed with a hard thud on an ash covered carpet. I passed out.


    When I woke up, it was late Sunday night. The moon was completely full and shone in through the window. I was scared to look out. I was scared to see my brother¡¯s mangled, bloodied corpse twisted on the lawn. I settled my breathing, gathered my courage, and climbed up onto the chair expecting to be horrified.


    The Husky had cleaned up his mess. Probably, he dragged Charley¡¯s body into the woods to eat. Even with a full moon on it was impossible to see the blood splattered on the lawn, but I could sense its presence.


    It has to be there...


    The living room was starting to look like a violent crime scene with trails of my blood strewn across the floor and my red hand prints covering walls and furniture. I had to really pull and yank to get the curtain to come loose of my arm where coagulated blood and dirt had glued it to my skin. Swelling had spread beyond the punctures, and a slug colored liquid was draining from the wounds. I tried to guess my temperature, and estimated it beyond 105. It was definitely the kind of temperature that caused my mom to throw back her whiskey, butt her smoke, and load us into the car for a race to the Raleigh Medical Center to treat a fever that if it got too high would cause blindness.


    It was the swelling that was making me sick. I¡¯m not so stupid I didn¡¯t realize that. The swelling was the dog¡¯s poison inside of me. It took effort, but I found myself in the kitchen finally. I positioned myself on a chair, in front of the sink, and rinsed my wounds with cold water. Red blood and slime disappeared down the drain, but it didn¡¯t take the pain with it. The pain was an ever-constant bolt of lightning shot through the holes in my arm and electrifying every nerve in my body.


    Charley is dead.


    I collapsed, banging my head onto the edge of the counter. The new dream does not allow me movement. It is the same catatonic dream of before, with strangers examining me with their brightly lit eyes. Behind them, silently commanding, is the Husky. He is bigger, even than before, with eyes glowing white like the moon. I used to love the moon, but now I despise it, like I would a murder accomplice. I can feel the pain in my arm even while sleeping. The pain radiates throughout my whole body beginning and ending with the wounds. It has swelled to astronomical sizes. I¡¯m disturbed that I can¡¯t remember if my arm has actually swelled to that size or if it¡¯s a part of my dream. The Husky began to growl. The examiners blink their small, bright, watchful eyes as if photographing me with every blink. The poison in my arm erupts like a volcano, spewing in unison out of each of my six puncture wounds sprays of crimson blood, like sound radiating from a church organ¡¯s pipes.

 Monday

    Monday


    I awoke, yet again, to find myself lying in a pool of blood. I am in the kitchen, but not near the sink where I was before. My dream had caused my body to erupt in fits that had tangled me up into a pile nearer the kitchen table. It¡¯s pointless to attempt to move. I am too weak.


    My mom may come home today.


    My mother wasn¡¯t one to stay away longer than a weekend, so I thought she could get home in time to save me. I could sense the fever had broken because my body was shaking and cold.


    The pain wrenched my gut and caused me to twist and quiver on the floor. It wasn¡¯t bandaged, so the blood and puss pooled around me on the linoleum. Every so often, I¡¯d hear the Click Click sound of dog paws walking on hardwood floors, stalking me from just outside the kitchen. In a rare moment of physical endurance, I was able to reach up and take a butcher¡¯s knife from the drawer. The exertion was so much it caused me to pass out again, but holding the knife provided me with a weak sense of security. I''d stab it in the throat if it came near me. For Charley, although I wasn''t so sure anymore that Charley was dead. It was hard to make sense of anything, to know what was real and what wasn''t.


    I dreamt many dreams, and the Husky was in them all.


    He is trying to get into my head. He¡¯s punishing me for being human, for being small and weak.


    In my frightening nightmarish world, I willed myself to remember every special moment I¡¯d ever shared with Charley. I fell into a deep depression when I realized my memory had been erased, and there was nothing left except the memory of pain never-ending.


    When I woke up again the sun was high and spilling through the window across the dining room. That meant it was three o¡¯clock, or nearly so. I opened my mouth to call out to her, but only a raspy moan escaped my throat. I cleared my throat and tried again. "Mommy?" If she were home, she would have heard me, but she wasn¡¯t home. I grew certain that she was never returning. She¡¯d abandoned me there. She¡¯d taken to leaving more and more often and it was on account of me. It was because I was bad. No good kid. I didn¡¯t keep my room clean, and if it wasn¡¯t for me her men would stick around. She''d be better off if I was dead. Charley was the only person who¡¯d ever cared for me and I''d maybe got him killed.


    A single tear escaped my eye, as I made my last plea to God. I asked for soundless, dreamless sleep. I begged for no pain. If that meant death, I accepted death.


    The poison was swelling under my skin, near bursting. I could feel it in my neck growing like a goiter in my collar bone. I thought I heard the sounds of paws again coming across the floor and then fading away. A part of me demanded a self-sacrifice be made to appease him.Stolen novel; please report.


    ¡°Just do it!¡± I screamed. ¡°Rip my throat out. Do me the same way you did Charley. Show yourself and do it!¡±


    The pain was so much I couldn¡¯t fall asleep anymore. It stiffened me and radiated constantly throughout my entire body. Each time it sent waves of pain, I grasped the knife a little tighter. It was a sharp knife. When mom had a man living here, and we had cable television, she¡¯d ordered a set of knives that could cut through tin cans.


    The poison was getting closer to my brain. Once it set into my brain, I was certain I¡¯d die or become that dog¡¯s slave. If he planned to kill me, he would have done it straight away. He wanted the poison to get to my brain. He wanted me to do his evil bidding, which sounded like a fate worse than death. I didn¡¯t want to be that dog¡¯s zombie for the rest of my eternal life. So, I looked at the knife already smudged with my blood, and I contemplated its power.


    Getting the poison out is the only way I¡¯ll make it.


    I placed the knife just under my shoulder and closed my eyes and counted backward from three.


    It can¡¯t possibly hurt more than it does now.


    I shoved it into my own putrid flesh with a strength I¡¯d wish I¡¯d had when I was trying to save Charley from his violent death. I stopped when I hit bone and was unable to continue because even knives that can cut through tin cans can¡¯t cut through a little girl¡¯s arm bone.  Not that I could have continued because it did hurt more, it hurt so much more. Blood shot out in every direction. It exploded out of me like a fountain of cherry red Kool-Aide, but that was nothing compared to the hot internal slicing and the pain of my heart thumping, desperately trying to escape my chest cavity. My heart couldn¡¯t pump blood fast enough to account for what was erupting from the wounds I¡¯d inflicted.


    What does it matter if I bleed to death anyhow? No one is coming home. I¡¯m a failure. I can¡¯t even saw off my own arm.


    I felt I had a fever again, and there was a dull thud in my brain meaning the poison had reached its ultimate destination. I¡¯d attempted to cut it out too late, and the dog had taken control. I believed it was him who¡¯d sent the message to my brain telling me I could do it. I could cut off my own arm. Only I couldn¡¯t do it because arms have bones, and bones are too thick, and no one my size has ever had the physical strength to put aside pain and grief in order to cause far more pain and grief. And it was so much worse.


    I found my voice and screamed louder than I¡¯d ever screamed.


    Thoughts mingled in my brain, and they smashed together like a crowded toy box. I couldn¡¯t make sense of anything except that dog¡¯s expressionless eyes. I realized that soon the beast would have me, and that sent me into a panic because maybe it would make me hurt my mother, or attack some innocent child like I was when it attacked me. I felt I had Charley with me, and I could hear his voice in my mind telling me I was braver and stronger than I thought; that I couldn¡¯t let the dog win, so I plunged the knife into my own neck. Best to get it over with. Anything to make it stop.


    I felt myself being pulled backward into an abyss, into abysmal eternal darkness and nothingness because on the other side there is really nothing except black emptiness, but it is thankfully devoid of feeling. The pain was gone. It subsided into nothing until it was as if it never existed. Someone had dug a well behind me, an endless hole in our kitchen floor into which I was slipping further and further down. The kitchen was a small circle of light above me, and the farther I fell, the smaller that circle became. I glimpsed my mother and brother¡¯s eyes watching me fall, and I waved to them before realizing I didn¡¯t have arms. I felt quite like a calm feather drifting aimlessly falling from the stratosphere, catching on errant winds.


    Charley¡¯s voice is far away but I can hear him screaming my name. My mother is crying. Someone says, ¡°Get her to the car,¡± but I was too far away to get to the car, to get anywhere really. I was becoming nothing, but energy.


    I am gone now.