He hunched over in the alley, relishing his prize. It had been a long, hard hunt, but it was so worth it. Every single minute that he had spent planning it, playing out every possible scenario in his head, seemed like a breeze. It had taken him an entire week, but he had finally got what he wanted.
The headache. The headache was what had started it all.
He woke up one morning, with a splitting migraine. They had plagued him ever since he was a child, but this one was particularly bad. And there was a sound, something that seemed to hammer a nail into his skull every few seconds. It was a yelling, a yapping, something that his sleepy brain couldn’t comprehend. He shook his head, wincing at the shards of pain. It cleared out the cobwebs, and then he understood.
It was the dog. The neighbour’s dog.
The poor thing had gotten three of his teeth removed, and had been in agony for nearly a week. Every few hours, he would howl in pain. And even though everyone hated it, they had known that dog for nearly a decade now. But as he considered the racket, he realized something.
He didn’t care.
He spent the entire day thinking about the dog. And the more he thought about it, the more the anger grew. A night’s sleep. So much pain. He had suffered, and quite a bit at that. And the worst part was that he had suffered alone. He had writhed in agony, while the rest of the world slumbered on. And that dog yapped.
That was the thing he hated the most. No one shared his pain.
But as he planned and plotted, he grew happier. He knew that he was working towards a goal, one that would bring him satisfaction.
And then the day dawned. Glorious and bright. He had another migraine, and oh, how he hated the sun.
He walked into the neighbour’s yard, where the pug’s doghouse was. He put his hand out, letting the little thing sniff him. The dog wolfed down the cookie faster than he would have imagined.
The ADHD medication worked even faster.
He put the sack over the pug, and put him into the camping bag that he had brought along. He then walked towards the skate park. There was an alley where he knew he wouldn’t be disturbed.
He dropped the sack on the gravel, relishing the soft groan that emanated from it. His thirteen-year-old arms were aching from the strain. He never had been as strong as the other kids.
He took his father’s scalpel out of his pocket, and a length of rope out of his backpack. He bound the dog’s limbs firmly, and drew one length of rope across its mouth. He tightened it, opening up the dog’s mouth and and forcing it inside like a bit. He kept tightening, grinning wider as the skin started to tear.
Flesh, he discovered that day, was surprisingly pink.
He picked up the scalpel, and went to work.
When he stopped for breath, there was no skin left on the creature. Of course, he was no surgeon. There were scraps of flesh missing where he had cut too deep, and there were tiny patches where he missed. But he was satisfied.
He lifted the entire bloody carcass in his hands, and started towards the drain. Nearly at the culvert, he stopped and pondered for a second.
And then sank his teeth into the soft flesh of the dog’s belly.
Flesh, he discovered that day, tasted even better uncooked.
He tossed the dog and everything else into the gutter. The backpack, the sack, even his clothes. He changed into the fresh set he had brought with him, and trotted back home.
He slept like a baby that night.