Disgustingly Wrong - 14

The matted fur on his back was filled with bristles and thorns. He knew not where he was but if he did, he would have realized that over the dark green hill that covered the setting sun lay the house that he had left. His stomach growled and he began to limp forward; the pad on his front right paw had worn clean off and blood leaked from it slowly and continuously. His nose was jammed with the general smell of decay that hung around him. He began to walk in circles, twisting his body and flattening the grass. Then he curled into a ball and lay down, whimpering. His dark red tongue slipped out of his black muzzle and pathetically swiped across the tip of his nose. His vision blurred and he knew he must close his eyes or the sleep would not come. A fly buzzed out of the bushes and settled on his wounded paw but he was too exhausted to care. His eyelids slid down over the fuzzy patterns and colors and his tail gave a flick upwards, accidentally brushing the scratch on his thigh by mistake, sending a wave of electric pain crawling down his foot and causing a spasm which upset him but got rid of the fly.

He gave a snort through his nostrils and relaxed. The pain melted away and his chest began to rise and fall rhythmically with his breathing. The sun set and the stars popped out overhead, the representatives of our dead, littering the sky with their eerie twinkling luminescence. Then slowly, they began to fade from their places to be replaced by the slowly expanding arms of the sun, catching them all three at a time. As its warmth descended upon our hero, it was obvious that something was disgustingly wrong. Fog, like from a graveyard, had gathered around his body. It filled every nook and crevice and it extended tiny tendrils in between his hairs but there was not a drop of dew. As the sky lightened into its cheery blue, light twirled around his body merrily. The same fly swooped in, exploring, and there was not a sound as it began to feed on the blood pooled around his paws.