I feel the pinch in my stomach, but I refuse to look down. The pain is duller than a knife but still punctures, a prodding and burrowing that waters my eyes as it burrows past my skin. I focus on the walls, trying to distract myself from the erupting pain that begs for my attention. I look at the serenity of the white paint, hoping to hypnotize myself as I feel the tiny barbs tearing through my abdomen.

The prodding gives way to tearing, and my hand grips the counter top to steady myself. I blink and the tears stream, drops that are dwarfed by the spattering I hear hitting the floor. I don’t dare look. I’m scared to. If I can just keep looking forward, maybe I’ll close my eyes and it’ll be over. I’ll fade away, and the wet ripping won’t matter any more.

As the hole in my stomach widens, my gaze falters from the wall. I look to the tile in desperation, feeling weak as the electrical stabbing fades to a deeper discomfort that surpasses the sensation of pain.

It’s rooting around my insides.

My eyes keep drifting, even after I feel teeth clamp down on something within. The pristine white tile gains speckles of red, until the splatters grow into the pool soaking my feet. When I finally look down, the sight is devastating.

The sudden evacuation of my guts weakens me, and my intestines flee like a spool of stained yarn. I watch them unravel, following the lead until I rest my eyes on the culprit. At the end of the purple rope, is my dog, Maxwell.

A spine of raised hair trails down his back, and even with his mouth full, I see the damage his canines cause. His jaws snap on the leash, choking it down inch by inch as it swallows it like human pasta. In my fading consciousness, I don’t question why. I only hope it is enough to take care of him after I am gone. The white of the kitchen fades to black, and I am left with the repetitive gnashing of his teeth on my insides.

I wake in my bed, tired and weary. The reflecting sun stings my eyes, and through my squinting I can see the tubes and bag of the IV. I am reminded of my illness.

I hear the claws on the hardwood floor, a moment later the licking of my hand. My only remaining comfort, in a world of burned out families and a tide of medical bills.

I look into his eyes, trying to express as much love as possible.

“I had the craziest dream, Max. I dreamt you ate me. But you’d never do that, would you?”

His cheery panting ceases, and his ears flutter. When I ask again, he looks away.