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. 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'll 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, old 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, 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.

I didn't grow up with a dad.

He left the moment he finished up with my mom. Hit and quit, I think is the slang for it. It was a simple hookup at some college party.

Innocent fun, right?

Not so much fun for me, and even less for my mother.

We struggled.

No matter how many jobs she picked up, it never seemed like we could get ahead. She could've made it with out me for sure, but she wasn't that kind of woman.

She taught me to be a different type of man. One that's kind. One that's gentle. One that takes responsibility.

When it came to those lessons, I soaked them up like a sponge. The fact of the matter was that I didn't want to be anything like my father. As far as I could tell, my mom was more of a man then he would ever be.

I mean seriously, what kind of man leaves his family?

When I was a boy, I used to dream of him stepping through that front door. In my dream he always was holding a Red Rocket bike in his right hand, and he'd approach me and wrap his arms around me.