Exit Papers from Paradise by Liam Card

Author:Liam Card
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dundurn Press
Published: 2012-09-11T00:00:00+00:00

“Isaac! Hey! What’s going on? Are you down there?”

The words grow faintly in volume, like increasing the digital numbers with the TV remote.

“Should I turn it back on for you?” yells the voice.

My eyes open but my vision is still fuzzy.

My face is in the dirt, open-mouthed and drooling.

I close my mouth and try to calculate what’s going on. There is dirt in my mouth now, and it is grinding between my teeth.

I shift my head to look behind me using the one eye that isn’t still in the soil. The image I see is first received by the lens, which condenses the information for the retina, who relays the image to the optic nerve, which translates and channels the most horrifying image my brain has ever processed.

My ass is in the air and my face is in the dirt and Tim is, in fact, pounding me without remorse. Given my current position, he can now reach me with his snout and hot dog breath billows up against the back of my neck. All my open eye can see is Tim’s narrow dog hips mechanically grinding his pink thing into my denim.

I wish this was a daydream I could pull out of. Really? Do you want to be daydreaming this? I would be completely certifiable if I were daydreaming this. Much better that this is not a daydream but still horrific that it is happening.

How long have I been unconscious? How long has this violation been left unsupervised? Isaac, you need to stand up. You need to get the husky off you.

With my right hand, I reach down to the crossed paws and pry one of them from my stomach.

Success.

With my right leg, I bring it forward and kick back hard against Tim’s hind leg. Tim squeals intensely and I feel his weight lift from my back.

Success.

I’m glad you squealed, you rapist — you sick, guiltless bastard! What kind of animal dry-humps people who are unconscious? I would’ve kicked you harder, Tim, had I been able to find more leverage. I hope that kick triggers hip dysplasia and you die from lethal injection.

Pushing back with my hands, I wiggle my way out from under the edge of the crawl space and stand on my own two feet again. Visibly shaken.

“I don’t know what gets into him,” says Graham, standing with his arms crossed and shaking his head, just a few feet from the scene of the crime. Graham? How long have you been standing there?

“He just gets out in this fresh country air and becomes another person.”

Forget my hands and feet — my entire body is numb. My jaw clenches so hard, the masseter muscles are almost at failure. How long was he standing there — accomplice to the perpetrator? Where was the two-snap obedience routine I saw earlier? Where was that trick, Graham, when the molestation was taking place?!

“You okay, Isaac?” he asks.

Graham, I am not okay! I am fucking pissed. Bottle it, Isaac. You need this dog-porn trainer of a lawyer to write your reference letter.

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