I am standing in a white room, just as I remember it when I first woke up in the laboratory.
I see Dr. Carell, the table, and the computer, but in the chair in the middle, it is not me who is chained to it; it is Henry.
Clenching my jaw, I walk to him, seeing him stare at Dr. Carell, who is typing something into the computer.
I watch the doctor stand up and swiftly insert a needle into Henry's hand.
Then I see that sick fucker go to work, dissecting a paw that wasn't his to touch—a hand that held mine and was probably still doing so in the present, a hand that patted me, stroked me, fuck—a hand that beat me the first time we met. A hand that touched my chest, with the specific finger that tapped twice right above my heart.
"Where is Kenny?" The dog, not caring about his paw, asks.
"He is gone and left you here to fend for yourself." I answer his question, watching the blood, the tissue, and the muscles on display for everyone to see thanks to Dr. Carell.
