I’ve been relocated to Sanctuary against everyone’s better judgement - not my own mind you, I never wanted to be here. I was perfectly content to live out my days in a non-standard living arrangement with two ceiling chairs I met at a bar fight. Oh, they’re adorable - they barely speak any English - and if you have to ask what a ceiling chair is, I pity the life you’ve wasted. …. Oh, right, torture! I asked nicely on several occasions to take proper precautions against bacteria on the instruments, but it fell upon idiotic ears. As they cut into my flesh over and over, I would fade in and out of consciousness and whisper to the ceiling chairs that it was going to be okay. Clork was afraid at first, his four legs trembled against the cold ceiling, but he knew he had to be strong for me. Then they went to work on his brother, Phillip. Phillipe - I, I just - Phillipe was so brave. He was so brave for me when the rotary saws began to ply the legs from his body. Clork cried out for his brother, even when one of the torturers inadvertently sat on him and muffled his cries. The last list Phillipe said before he passed on to the great wooden beyond was ‘I love you, Patty. I love you.’ And then he was gone.