The Slaughterhouse

“Boy, you’re entirely too old to be pussyfooting with a grown hog like that. If you intend to do a job, then do it, don’t hesitate,” said the blood-soaked farmer.

I looked down at the horror stricken pig with pity in my eyes. It seemed to know what would happen next. The poor creature was beginning to squeal. It was too similar to the cries of a human. I felt sickened, like I was witnessing a murder.

With one slash of the knife, one squirt of the arterial spray, one choked squeal, the job was done. James “Jimmy” O’Neil, a no-nonsense farmer old enough to feel the aches of a body abused by hard work, yet not old enough to enjoy the relief that comes with retirement; slit the throat of the unruly pig.

Blood.

Blood everywhere.

It soaked the ruby concrete of the floor of the slaughterhouse. It was thick and hot, and sluggishly flowed down the sloped floor towards the drain. Somehow it moved slower than normal liquid. I watched as it made its descent towards the drainage system. I stood there transfixed. I could not pry my eyes away from the gruesome trek of the blood. It felt as if I was staring at it for hours.

“Boy. BOY. Are you even listening to me? I want this mess cleaned up, you think you can handle that?” questioned the callused old farmer.

Being drawn out of my reveling, I responded, “Yessir, I will clean it up.”

I had originally been tasked to slaughter the pig, but I couldn’t do it. Now I stood there, eyes downcast, looking thoroughly abashed.

“I swear kids these days are practically useless. All this school and respecting others’ bullshit is ruining the youth. Are you going to be able to clean up this mess or are you gonna just stand there like an invalid again?” said the gruff voice of the bent man.

Beginning to turn red in the face, I kept my eyes glued on the growing pool of blood. I was unable to muster the courage to meet the old man’s withering stare. With a nod of my head, I agreed.

Without a second glance, the old man left the barn.

I doubted that age would do anything to help me with my little problem. The fact of the matter is, I am no killer. It was tough enough for me to kill mosquitos. How was I supposed to kill a pig I had tended to for a whole year? I knew I wouldn’t be able to go through with it when the pig locked eyes with me. Its eyes seemed to be pleading with me, reminding me of all the times we had spent together. I talked to the pig, shared my hopes and dreams, my failures, even read poems and stories to it. It was perhaps the closest thing to a friend I had.

Now, those dead and familiar eyes drilled into me. They accused me of a thousand betrayals. They hurled obscenities at me. The room was growing hot. The walls seemed to be moving in, suffocating me. That blood again. All I saw was red all around me. I heard it pumping in my ears. It was as if the sound of my blood rushing in my veins was being amplified somehow. I felt my head grow heavy, like I had been breathing too much toxic fumes. The lights grew dim and all went black.

*

I looked up seeing the old farmer approaching me with the knife.

The man turned to a figure saying, “Boy, you are entirely too old to be pussyfooting with a grown hog like that. If you intend to do a job, then do it, don’t hesitate.” The farmer bent down towards me brandishing the knife.

I cried out. Fear paralyzed me and I knew exactly what was going to come. With a white-hot flash of pain, the knife ran across my neck. Blood rushed down my throat clogging my air passages. I was choking on my own life-blood. I tried to spit the sticky hot liquid out of my throat. My efforts were in vain. I felt my body grow weak, my vision fading. Before the darkness could consume me, I looked to see a queasy looking, me, beginning to clean up the mess.