Shot to the Heart by: Kiya Brassow, Archival Inkjet Print, 2018

I find myself sitting next to my friend, Jim. He’s not the prettiest motherfucker in the world. He’s kind of short, black hair, a bit big around the waist, smells like he bathes in sewage 24/7, but through thick and thin he’s been by my side for what I remember to be all my life. Good and bad, mostly bad. I know it was mostly bad because whenever he’d get home, I’d be there with his favorite toy to cheer him up, and it usually works  because there would be a smile across his face. Even when he just looks at me, he smiles. For some reason today, though, whenever he smiles, I don’t see happiness. I see sadness. Someone calls our names. We get up and proceed to the next room. The lights are way too bright, stupid fluorescent bulbs. It smells clean, not Pine-Sol clean. It smells like there’s nothing in the room, sterile. The annoying buzz from the light bulbs is the only sound I can hear because no one is talking. It’s a bit frightening, but Jim is here, so everything’s okay. Jim puts his hand on my head to ease my anxiety. He always knows when I’m anxious. He lays me down and starts to rub my belly. Then something pokes me, could have been a mosquito but I didn’t smell it. Jim’s still rubbing my belly. It feels great, but then I notice my movement. Why am I moving slower? Why do my limbs feel like they’re being weighted by cinder blocks being dragged through sand? Why is my breath extending and getting deeper? I feel sleepy, but not tired sleepy. All my energy is fading from me. Something’s happening. It’s not good. I can’t seem to move. Jim what’s happening to me? I look at Jim and I see sadness drip from his eyes. You knew, didn’t you? Please, make it stop. If you’re mad at me, I’m sorry. Was it the time I ate yours shoes? I’m sorry. Or was it the time I pooped in the living room? That was kind of your fault for leaving me behind on a full stomach, but I’m sorry for that, too. Or is it that I’m getting old? I still have energy. Look! I try to move, but I can’t. I notice the drips of sadness pour out of Jim like water from the hose. It’s because I can’t move like I did before, isn’t it? If you make it stop, I promise we can still play. You can put me on a diet. We can go play catch in the park. I can still make you smile. I promise. Just make it stop. Jim kisses my forehead, and I lick his chin. Then darkness.