I remember getting my dog named Happy from my uncles barn over the cornfields from our own ranch back in 1997. His English Mastiff had a liter and he gave me one when he found out from my aunt that I hadn't come out of my room since my sister went missing. I don't know why they named her Happy, it was just a faint parody to me of remedying a mysterious atrocity that filled the air of our ranch.

My father moved me into my sister's room because he thought it would help me feel closure or... feel something. I'm not really sure why he did that, I asked myself thousands of times why my father, the only person left on our ranch besides me, would do such a thing. If I did believe in any type of God, I'd think he were some sort of evil, but these are things me and Sarah knew already about him. When I asked him to clean the blood stains from the rug in her room, he got me a painting easel and mounted it on said stain, and told me to learn to think it was paint. Years later, I found out he had bipolar schizophrenia, but with the way me and my sister grew up, we knew him, got used to him, heard him and felt him, hated him, went numb and retrieved any blinking possibility of a rational thought or emotion to the further back portion of our mind that made our ears ring and always feel like a nosebleed was a sneeze away. I stayed in the room with the dog dad gave me because I don't know.

The maniacal atmosphere, that I didn't really understand back then, ushered my absolute numb state into acting almost mechanically and just through orders. I never really moved anymore, I'd blink slowly as I gaze motionless out my sisters bay windows that I was always fond of as storms would roll over and the tiny hairs on by arm would raise as the panel ranch walls quaked the way my mother used to. The room had a permanent smell of sweet iron. I think it came from the rug.

I don't know why I started to paint one day. I just remember very very faintly standing over the easel painting on a stretched canvas as Happy licked the rug between my legs. Happy was getting bigger now. He was strong and was always moving, at the time I just really couldn't comprehend his interest in even moving. He panted in a way where from his inner body something momentarily would spark his interest like as a jolt of electricity, that would often propel him into either dashing outside where I'd see him chasing one of chickens down in the fields, or fucking another dog in the night. His panting and shock of interests were just so foreign to me. I didn't feel for Happy. Nothing, just a moving object between my legs as I painted.

The brush moved like my arm were a part of something else. My mind wasn't composing anything, but an ease washed over my body as the white of the canvas changed and flowed from one color to the next churning like the clouds that seeped over our fields, dripping on the crops and Happy as I dipped into another color a deep resonance of exploding inspiration to even feel rushed through my fingertips like a lightning strike commanding my body as I stabbed glided over from one part of the canvas to the next, I feel an immense overwhelming sensation that leaves me erect as my eyes continue to roll back I grip the top of the canvas to keep from falling over as my knees quaked to the tips of my toes as I curled the and begun to land Happy tail wagging further disturbing the little balance I had and in that second I absolutely hated that dog and as if all happened in that same second I drove the brush with my falling weight deep into his eye as he whaled like that fucking piece of lying shit of an name he was as i collapsed on top of him on my sisters rug with the canvas on top of us, smothering paint all over my face as I drew the brush in and out of his eye over and over thinking of the way he would pant over a bitch as he fucked feeling the same ecstasy rolled my eyes and feeling him lay still, blood poorer all over my painting, I jerked myself up slowly pulling the brush out of Happy and stabbed the canvas smearing whatever blood remained on the brush on the canvas, making a hole in its stretch, as I was still erect I shoved myself into the hole and over by the windowsill I tried to do it exactly as Happy used to, but this time as I lay over him I watched his blood stain that same carpet, as just before my eyes rolled back I slammed the canvas on the floor and rained over my art as thunder roared outside and the coming storm celebrated with me, after the stars behind my eyes left I dragged Happy down the stairs with my finished painting, took off all my clothing laying my dog to my left and my painting to my right I lay in the mud facing the sky laughing for the first time since my sister was murdered as the lighting illuminated my neck and cheeks.