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06 January 2017 - 02:59


There is a welcome numbness in my being that I had not felt for a long, long, time. I had not realized how much I missed this nihilistic feeling. Lack of feeling, more like.

My sister just killed a dog. Drowned him. A puppy, to boot. One of her bitches recently had a litter. They are about two months old. Out of carelessness, fate, karma, whatever you want to call it, her husband ran one over. Smashed its tiny foot and snapped its neck. Death should have been forthcoming, however, for the poor animal, it never arrived. They listened to it whimper for hours, gave it Tylenol for pain, as an overdose so it would go peacefully, no luck. During this entire time, I was going about my evening, unaware. Finally, she called me less than half an hour ago, crying. "I think I have to drown him," she sobbed. I think she wanted me to go over and do it. I'm sure part of her wished for me to offer to do so, but I live half an hour away. The animal had suffered long enough.

I recommended that she take a hammer to its head. "Wrap him up," I instructed calmly. "At least from his shoulders on up, then whack him with a hammer." Her sobbs grew louder. "I can't!" she told me. "What if I miss? Isn't drowning better?" I told her the ugly truth: drowning is a painful death, according to most forensic studies. A hammer is more violent, of course, and harder on the culprit, especially if you're unwilling. It breaks something inside you. But for the victim, it's actually quicker. Again, all things I've read. I knew she wouldn't be able to pull it off on her own, and I almost volunteered to drive over to get it done, but instead I recommended that she get help from her husband. She instantly protested, saying that he felt horrible enough as things stood, and that he couldn't even bear to go outside where the puppy was. She was on her own.

For a moment, Ninja's rage flared up in my breast, fueling Moco's instinct to protect my sister. Disgust towards her husband has always been there; this just adds to that. But instead of arguing things with her (that wouldn't have helped anyway), I began to instruct her on how to wrap the dog before drowning him in a five-gallon bucket of water. "Don't ease him into it," I instructed as I listened to the animal whimper on the other end of the line. "Dunk him into the cold water fast. The shock of the water will cause him to reflexively swallow water quicker. Keep him submerged for at least five minutes. Be prepared, because his death won't be instant, and you will feel him struggle against you." Her breaths were haggard on the other end of the line. "I'm sorry," I added, almost as an afterthought. I knew she needed to hear that part.

I know that her being on the line with me helped while she carried out the deed. While I spoke to her, my head began to pound, but not in pain. It is a strange pulsing of the brain, as though I can feel my heart beat at my temples, my fingertips, the overall surface of my skin. Then, for a few seconds, my shoulders began to tremble a bit. I couldn't control it, and then, just as quickly, I stopped. I was suddenly in full control of my body, my voice became monotone, I felt serene and at peace. I kept time on my tablet and told her when it would be alright for her to remove the dog from the water. Five minutes, but I actually did not tell her until over six had passed. This was done for BB's sake. Just to make sure, although dogs usually take between 3.5 to 4 minutes to die. Better to be safe than sorry. This is what it feels like to be me. I had not surfaced for years now. Yes, I am sure it has been over a year. Perhaps 2014 was the last time I was in full control of the body like this.

The feeling itself is not unfamiliar. The part of my psyche that is my inner siblings, especially the section that is Salazar, feels strangely comforted. I do not see why. To me, nothing has changed. The body still fits me perfectly, like a velvet glove, and I can control it effortlessly. I listened to my sister cry once it was over, and she told me that she now understood how I must've felt when our father died back in 2008. I told her that it is never easy to watch any living being die, but sometimes, it is necessary. When she mentioned him, I thought it a bit unfair that she would compare our father's death to that of a dog, but in the end, she is not so far off. She forgot the part about me killing our father, though, or perhaps that is what she meant all along by her comment, because now we have both killed the dying. In that moment, I almost told her. However, I let the urge of confessing pass, and the moment was lost. This is something I will take to my grave, I suppose. Or not, as I'm posting about it here. It matters not, anyway. I will let the others savor guilt; I feel none.

I hope she is at peace now, though I believe this will gnaw at her for some time. Rosa Isela is not as strong as I am, in respect to death. She will cry much, whereas I did not shed a single tear for my father after he was dead. Expending oneself over corpses is silly and pointless. Corpses are dead and cannot feel anything. They do not care if one weeps over them.

Well, I will likely be dominant for the rest of the night. The body hasn't eaten, or taken our medication, so although it is late, I had better get that taken care of.

I do not know when I will resurface again. I may not for a long time. However, I remain ever vigilant.

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