“Milton,” she called, her voice shaky. The small dog trotted in from the other room to stand in the kitchen doorway. He cocked his head and wagged his tail a couple of times, questioning. She set the bowl on the floor. “Come on, baby. Come eat—” and her voice broke. With one hand she stroked the dog’s head and back as he wolfed down the chunks of rotting flesh in his bowl, her tears hot and blinding, her heart fracturing.
He’d lost some weight over the last few weeks. They both had. She could feel his ribs and spine beneath her palm.
Which was part of the reason she had to do this now.
Her other hand, tucked behind her back, gripped the handle of the knife she’d just sharpened....Click here to read the rest of Part I on The Darker Half.