PRIVATE SCHOOL DID NOT TEACH HOW TO BURY THE MUTILATED CORPSE OF A DOG IN THE MIDDLE OF THE WOODS.
It did not teach how to kill it either — a knife right through the pumping heart, twisting counterclockwise until blood, red and vile, came splashing out. It did not teach how warm it felt when it splattered all over one’s face and how bad it would smell once dried. And, certainly not the gruelling sounds it would make, echoing long after.
The moon stood high, illuminating the narrow gravel path. The body lay on the left between moss covered stumps and winding roots reaching out like hands from the underworld. It almost could have been peaceful if it weren’t for the poor creature’s eyes being gauged out, its crimson coloured sockets getting swarmed by flies. Their melody was hectic, almost if they felt the urgency of the situation, knowing that soon they would loose out on a feast ...
(guess I'm writing again)