A Thing

You run away as fast as you can, breathing heavily and painfully as you dash. One of the small beings jumps onto your back but you smack it off of you with your cotton ball and it falls to the floor dead. Your morale increases slightly, though there are still 24 dogs to go. You are almost to the door to the room you woke up in when you feel a dog on your back, then 2, then 10, then 20. You collapse to the ground under the wait of the oddly adorable beasts and are devoured by them in mere minutes, leaving only bones licked clean by 24 tiny dog tongues.

Years from now, another adventurer will find you here, and with the power of the cotton ball you once held, stop the dogs and go on to save the universe. That won't be for a long time however, and the only thing you can think of right now is that you are dead.

You died.