full image - Repost: The Death and Rebirth of Sunny Crawford (I) (from Reddit.com, The Death and Rebirth of Sunny Crawford (I))
Mining:
Exchanges:
Donations:
Introduction: Before we begin, I'd like to apologize for my rather disorganized writing. I've never really been all that interested in this type of thing, but my therapist suggested that a journal logging my thoughts and feelings about certain events that transpired during my life would help me process them better so I can begin healing efficiently; I can't say I'm super opposed to the idea. However, the large drawback is going to be my therapist will only be getting a very heavily revised version of said journal. To be honest, I doubt this is an uncommon thing among most patients, as not many people are going to be willing to write down every little dark thought or memory they have rolling around in their brain. But, in my case, it is critical that I do not. I have a lot to write about, so I expect to fill this journal rather quickly. When I was younger, I had a less-than-optimal childhood. In the year 2000, before I was even old enough to have the object permanence and cognitive ability required to process the unfortunate death of my mother during her labor, something nasty brewed within my father: pure unadulterated hatred. Not only did I have the absolute gall to take away his beloved wife, but I had the AUDACITY not to cry about it the same day I was born. In fact, I didn't cry at all. I just laid quietly in the nurse's arms; clinging to her, very much akin to the way a newborn would cling to its mother. I was passed off to my grandmother, who held me gently; filled with love and care, but also with grief for my mother. Tears in her eyes and full of many conflicting emotions, she bounced me gingerly in her arms. She turned to my father, stifling a sob. She says, "He's beautiful; do you want to hold him?". My father refused.When I was around 7 years old, shortly after my grandmother passed away, my father told me something during her funeral that would always stick with me. He put his hands on my shoulders, looked me dead in the eyes, and said, "My son, wherever you go, the curse of death will always follow. Your curse." My whole life, I was told I was not one to be loved but a curse to bear. I was a monster who didn't even deserve the bare essentials of life, but my father provided them as he was a noble and benevolent man. I rarely got to see my grandmother before she died, so I grew up almost completely devoid of any love; barely even knew what it felt like. That is, until my father and I inherited my grandmother's 1-year-old golden retriever, Sunny. Sunny was a very adorable, well-natured and cuddly dog, with beautiful blonde fur and chocolate brown eyes. He was perfect in every way, and we did everything together. From day one, we were inseparable. Every day when I got home from school, Sunny would prance with excitement, placing his paws on the front window, leaving wet streaks across the glass with his nose. I'd open the front door, throw my bag onto the ground, and embrace my pup with a giant hug. Sunny was my one and only friend, and I made sure that he knew just how much I cared about him and that he would do the same for me. He wasn't very warm to my father, though. Typically, my father would stumble inside around 8:45 pm every night, heavily intoxicated. He'd go out drinking with his colleagues almost every night; he always claimed he was just a social drinker. However, if you knew him the way I did, you'd know he always just looked for any excuse he could to slam down a dozen bottles and get completely shit-faced. Now, at this point, you could probably imagine it didn't just end with neglect. 9 o'clock is where the beatings usually took place. Being under the influence of alcohol was always a total mask-off moment for my father; It's where I've learned most about my past and the strong, negative opinions my father has been harboring against me since the moment I was dumped into this world. In the end, I think I never really told anybody because I felt like I deserved it; I did kill my mother after all. After these beatings ended, I would run downstairs into the basement with Sunny, not before locking the door behind me so my father couldn't get in, and I held and pet him while I cried. If you didn't know, most dogs don't actually like being hugged; they feel it restricts their movements to a degree that they are vulnerable. But Sunny knew it made me feel better, so he let me. He was the best friend I could have ever asked for. I wish he could have stuck around longer. The night of April 12th, 2014, after a particularly horrible beating in the kitchen, something seemingly snapped in Sunny. I suppose he was tired of watching the abuse unfold as it always did, and he jumped on my father, digging his teeth deeply into his left leg and ripping an entire chunk of flesh from his body. He fell to his knees, clutching the bleeding hole in his leg, and let out a pained scream. To me, this was incredibly jarring, but at the same time, deeply fascinating; that day, he revealed a completely new emotion that I'd never seen him express before: fear. Sunny proceeded to go in for another bite, chomping down on his right cheek and nose, tearing the stretchy, elastic-like skin from his skull, and oozing a pool of blood onto the wooden floor. My father, beginning to regain his footing, punches Sunny directly in the muzzle, causing him to let out a wine. I instinctively ran over to protect my dog, but my father pointed at me, his hand shaking, the other hand firmly pressed against his mangled face. "Don't you fucking move a muscle, Tommy." Just like that, I froze up. I knew for my own survival that it was best not to challenge my father. Maybe whatever happens won't be so bad, or at least that's what I was pleading for in my mind. 'Don't hurt my friend. He's all I have.'I was a coward.My dad limps over to his living room safe, fiddling with the lock; my heart immediately sank. I fell to my knees, shielding Sunny with my arms. "Dad, please!! You don't have to do this, don't hurt him! Please, Dad, please!" At this point, my dad has already retrieved his shotgun. He chambers exactly one shell. He turns over to look at me, his torn-up face dyed red, bits of pink flesh hanging by threads. He looked almost demonic and absolutely repulsive, like something horrible that crawled out of the bowels of hell. "Don't worry, son; I'm not going to." He yanks Sunny's collar, kicks open the back door, and drags him into the yard as I follow closely behind. He forces Sunny to sit, facing him towards the treeline leading into the forest behind our house. He walks over to me and hands me the shotgun, my hands trembling violently as I grip the stock and pump with my hands."This is a dangerous animal, Tommy. I know how important Sunny is to you and how hard this is going to be, but you must understand: he's cursed, just like you. You need to be the one who does it. And if you don't like it? Who fucking cares! I'll just get you a new damn dog..." When I pulled that trigger, I was forced to snuff out the only light I had in my life. I didn't cry. Afterward, I clung onto my dad, very much akin to the way a small child would hug his father when seeking comfort after a traumatic event such as this. He, of course, did not reciprocate the hug. The next day, April 13th, 2014, my dad bought me a little Yorkie to shut me up; big enough to pet, small enough to be incapable of protecting a child from a grown man. I don't remember what I named him, but I did love that dog too; it was just no Sunny. So, every year since 2020, I've gotten a new Sunny. Typically, after every annual death, I took their paw prints and tucked them away nicely in the folder I like to keep underneath my bed, concealed within a stack of dog training books. Some are messier than others, but that's before I realized it would be easier to just print them after they already have died. This is a ritual I've continued to do every year. I know it's wrong, but I can't stop. It's an urge I can not suppress or control. I NEED to do this, and there is no other option. Tomorrow is April 12th, 2025; I will need to put Sunny down. Again. Entry 1: As I am writing this, I lay shaking underneath my wrinkled bed sheets, gripping a brand new paw print in my hand. I'm sweating profusely; I'm sticky and uncomfortable. I already miss him so much. While I hate what I've done and will continue to do, there's still always a bit of relief in the back of my mind. I know I'll find a new Sunny, and I always do. I try my hardest to talk to my therapist about certain impulses I have similar to this one, but the words always get caught in my throat. To be completely honest, that's how it is for most of the people I interact with in my day-to-day life. I'm not a very social person, I never was. My entire life outside of home, I've been reclusive and introverted. I'm the type of person who is too anxious to ask the waiter at a diner for an extra ketchup packet, and I was the type of kid who refused to raise their hand to answer a question at school in fear that they might get laughed at if they were incorrect. It's always been a lot easier for me to interact with pets; they don't expect you to hold long conversations, they're loyal, and most importantly: they will love you till the day they die. People can and will let you down. Pets won't. You know what to expect from them. (I only really seek out social events about once a year, but I'll get into that tomorrow) All of this applies to my life at work as well; I don't talk to my colleagues unless I have to, they don't talk to me. It's absolutely perfect. So let me tell you how shocked I was when I was approached by a coworker who I've only had contact with through passing glances and awkward waves. A pretty brunette, with blue eyes; I'd say roughly 5'7, 125 pounds with her lips perfectly smeared with cherry red lipstick. I'd say if I was a normal, functional human being, I'd probably be attracted to her. I mean, she is definitely conventionally attractive, at the very least. I am sure any other guy in this building would be willing to shoot their shot with her given the chance. I had virtually no idea why the hell she wanted to talk to me, though. "Hello, Tom!" She exclaims a little too enthusiastically, gripping her clipboard tightly. "...Or do you prefer Mr. Crawford?" "Mr. Crawford is fine," I said, trying my absolute hardest to mask my discomfort. "So uh, what's up?" I said awkwardly. This conversation just started, and I already wanted it to be over. She smiled softly and said, "I couldn't help but notice you've been an accountant here for around 2 years now, but you've never been very chatty with us!" I already knew where this was going, and I groaned internally. "So I was wondering, maybe we can all go out tonight, grab a drink, and get to know each other better! How does that sound?" It sounded absolutely terrible. Not to mention, I already had a plan for the night; I needed to find a way to decline without drawing too much attention to myself. I'm relatively okay at appearing like a normal, functional human being at a distance, but that facade kind of cracks when I'm forced to talk long enough. "Uh, sorry, but no! I can't tonight - I gotta lot going on tonight. Maybe the two of us could, some other week?" I blurted this out, cringing at myself in the process. I essentially didn't even decline; I just pushed it off like a fucking moron. I really am a curse, I have no idea how to interact normally. In fact, I think I managed to make that sound creepy enough that I wouldn't have been surprised if HR got involved. She looked a little taken aback for maybe a second; a slight blush formed on her cheeks. "Oh! Not to be rude or anything, but I was suggesting that all of us go out, not just the two of us, you know? Sorry, I just don't really do dates..."At that very moment, I absolutely craved the sweet release of death; I knew today was going to be hard, but this entire situation had almost completely superseded everything else. I absolutely despise talking to these people. Eventually, after an awkward 15 minutes or so of chatting, we decided that the two of us would, in fact, go to a bar together sometime before the end of the month. I absolutely have no intention of going, and the only thing I had on my mind at the time was getting home, and spending whatever time I had left with my beloved Sunny before the clock finally ticks to 9:00 pm. As I got in my car, I let out a long sigh of relief. It was finally time to go home. But on the drive back, this thought became less and less of a reassurance and more of a deep pain of dread in the pit of my stomach. Before the night ends, Sunny will be no longer with us. I wanted to cry; I still want to cry, but I can't. I slammed my car door shut, watching the reflection in the window distort in unflattering ways, but still revealing my pale, conflicted face. I walked into my house; the same one I grew up in. After some fine-tuning, it looks nothing like the dinky, almost dilapidated shit show that it was before. I Believe most normal people would have moved out of a house that had so many negative emotions and memories tied down to it, but I feel stuck. It's like I am exactly where I need to be. As I shut the door behind me, a shy Sunny cautiously wandered over to meet me. As I began to stroke Sunny's blonde hair, I carefully planted a gentle kiss on his forehead. "I'm home, boy.." I walk into my room, loosen my tie, unbutton my collar, and unceremoniously flop down on my bed. I was exhausted; I was not even close to being mentally prepared enough for tonight. I stared blankly at my watch, noticing the little hand just barely touched 7 o'clock. I closed my eyes and thought about the first time Sunny went home with my father and me. It was honestly shocking to me that he agreed to keep him since he never really was super fond of pets, but he was his mothers so I'm sure (at least at first) he felt some sort of emotional connection with him simply because of this. So with that, he was given a red collar, a red food bowl, a blue water bowl and the rest was history. I was also told to keep him off the furniture if I wanted to keep my scalp where it was, so unfortunately, he did not get to stay in my bed at night like the others did. But anyway, I was so lost in thought that I didn't even notice that Sunny was peeking around the door frame to my room until I heard the weight shift underneath his feet. I look over to him with a smile and gently pat the other side of the bed next to me. I couldn't quite read the expression I saw on his face, but I'm assuming he was content; it was just another cool Saturday night with his best friend and owner. We spent the next hour and a half watching cartoons as he cuddled against me, face nestled against my side as I stroked his back. I never really grew up watching much television because my father hogged it most of the time, but when I did, I'd tune onto Nickelodeon and Cartoon Network and watch anything that was running before I had to get on the bus in the morning. Adventure Time was always my favorite; it reminded me of Sunny and I. I'd have very vivid fantasies of us living in our own fantastical world like that; slaying monsters, saving kingdoms, taking quests.. I even have a few drawings I made of us in The Land of Ooo lying around here somewhere in my room! But yes, retreating into my imagination is where I felt the safest; it was never super easy for me to stay grounded. While Sunny was in the other room taking a nap, I spent the next half hour pacing in front of my dad's old safe in the living room, rolling the key between my fingertips. It was about time, and I needed the shotgun. I tried to suppress the flurry of emotions building up inside of me, and with a shaking hand, I inserted the key into the slot and unlocked the door. I slowly opened the heavy metal door, retrieved the firearm, loaded exactly one shell, and chambered it. I looked at my watch one last time; it was a quarter after 9. My breathing became irregular as my heart rate increased, feeling the pounding in my chest creep into my throat while the rhythmic thumping filled my ears. Exasperated inhales and exhales started turning into gross chokes; It felt like my head was spinning. "Dad..... p-please!! You don't have to do this, don't hurt him! Please, Dad, please!" I screamed, cradling the firearm in my arms as I rocked back and forth on the floor. I bit into my tongue as memories of my father, and Sunny flashed in my mind; I could see the blood-stained wooden floor, the torn flesh, the gnawing teeth. The fear in my father's eyes, then it bouncing right back to fury. The metallic taste in my mouth began to pull me back to the present, and as I regained my composure enough to open my eyes, I could see Sunny enshrined in darkness, half of his face peeking around the door frame. I stood up with the shotgun, looked at him, and beckoned him to come closer with my finger. He stood there, his body visibly shaking and his dilated pupils twitching. I felt awful, I never liked to scare them. However, that is, how it will always unfold. I love my pets; I always have and always will, but it requires to be set up just right. As he started to slowly back up, I scrambled over to him and snatched him up by his collar. He tried his best to pull away, letting out rather pathetic and disheartening whimpers as I dragged him across the floor; it made me cringe inside hearing Sunny so uncomfortable, but there was no other way I could have got him out the door at that point. I finally reached the back door, kicked it open, and led Sunny all the way into the backyard. I force him to sit, facing the same treeline from all those years ago, pointing the shotgun inches away from the back of his head. The weapon still rattled in my hands as it did before as I took it off safety; this was it. Just before I pulled the trigger, Sunny, with his hands tightly clasped together, attempted to turn and face me one last time. He opened his mouth and managed to stutter out two words: "Please don't," which was immediately drowned out with a single eruption of gunfire.
Social Media Icons