The Hand That Fed Me

The farm is peaceful. A November breeze ruffles my feathers, rays of warm sunshine envelope me like a comforting hug, and the scent of a delicious feast floats from within Mr. Jones' farmhouse. It is going to be an amazing day. Excitement pumps through me as a realize it's the day. Every year, Mr. Jones picks a turkey and a pig to feast with him. Oh how I wish it will be my turn to be chosen!

"Hey, Napoleon?" He grunts and turns to face me through the fence- his wrinkly, pink snout is caked in muck and slop.

"Where's Snowball?"

"The farmer took him over to the shed." His body tenses as we speak of his penn mate.

"What shed?" I query. A sympathetic look settles itself on his plump face.

"You'll see soon enough Fred."

"I want to know," I whine, "Come on! Tell me. Plea-"

"I said you'll see!" he snaps at me and goes back to eating, his curly tail just a few inches from my face.

"Snowball would tell me," I mutter under my breath. Confused, I decide to walk around the relatively small area within a wooden fence. My lanky legs wobble slightly beneath my weight and I nearly trip on a clod of dirt as I glance at the other animals. Strange. Everyone is looking at me.

"What?" They all shake their heads sadly and look elsewhere.

"What?" I stress out. No one even bothers to glance my way. I am about to ask again when Mr. Jones struts out the faded, blue door, whistling. He feeds and cares for all the animals and, finally, he makes his way to me. Something isn't right. His smile is too wide, posture too hungry, eyes too wild. He shoves a hand into the feed bag while the other grips onto something behind his back. Withdrawing a handful of seeds, he unlatches the lock on the gate and steps inside; his outstretched palm offers me seeds and corn. I hesitate to eat. Something is wrong, and I don't know what. So I back away. He comes closer. I shuffle back, he shuffles forward. Too soon, my back is pressing into the corner.

"Come on Freddy," he coos, "want some food?" My eyes flicker between his face and his beckoning hand, still unsure. He licks his chapped, cracking lips and sends me a chilling smile that reaches from ear to ear- for a moment, I worry that his face will split in two. I begin to flap my wings uneasily; something just doesn't feel right.

"Fred," he says in a stern voice, "if you want to want to come with me later in the farmhouse, you need to eat now." Pushing all the hesitant emotions to the very back of my mind, I begin to eat from his palm. Anticipation flows through me. I have been chosen! It truly is a wonderful day.

"That's it Fred. Eat." His smile widens as the food fills my stomach. Something shines in my peripheral vision and I barely have time to dodge the cherry, red ax in Mr. Jones' hand. His knuckles turn a pale, yellowy-white as he tightens his grip on the splinter-ridden, wood handle.

"FRED!" he barks. I run away from him when he nears and a low, feral growl escapes from deep within his throat. For the first time, I look at him in unbridled fear. The man in front of me is no longer the nurturing farmer that raised me. He looks at me the way a predator looks at his prey. I need to get away. I need to run, but where? He swings the ax yet again and I jump away. My entire body is shaking. My breath is stuttering. My veins are pumping with adrenaline. I make a run for the open gate and I can hear him mutter a string of barely cohesive, colorful curses. I'm so tired, but I can't stop; my own weight is dragging me down. It all makes sense now. Every little piece of the puzzle is falling into place. I understand now all the odd glances, the ravenous look in the farmer's eyes, feeding me more and more every day, the shed- the shed... Oh Snowball... I can see the gap in the fence that will lead to my freedom and safety. Suddenly, my foot collides with a rock and I tumble to the dirt floor, struggling to stand. Mr. Jones grabs me by my neck, lifting me off the ground. Strangled squawks vibrate their way out of my beak and I hope he can hear them the way I intend for them to be heard. As cries of help. He doesn't even falter. What had I done to him? I only ever gave him my love and affection.

"NAPOLEON! Boxer! Clover.... Please...." I shriek and whimper. They duck their heads and look anywhere but me. They do nothing; Mr. Jones does nothing. I thought they cared. I thought we were a family. I see him approach the small shed cloaked in the dark shadows of the farmhouse. Barely noticeable; so seemingly unimportant. But I know now. I know just how daunting it is. His boots clomp against the termite-rotted floor and he flings the door shut with his foot, but it swings back open. I stop struggling. My body goes limp as numbness overtakes me. There's no resisting the inevitable. He lays my head down upon a wood block stained with a rusty color and I stare out. Out past the crack between the metal doors of the horrid shed. Past the farm. Past the hills and to the woods. The trees. The crisp, yellow and orange leaves flutter from the treetops to the dying grass below. It seems just yesterday those very leaves were green and thriving. Now? Now I look at them; I see how fast they changed. The sun I had basked in just a few hours prior dips just below the horizon and peeks through the shed, glinting off the ax held high above my head. I turn my neck and give the man one last once over before staring back at the trees. He's not Mr. Jones anymore; I'm not quite sure who he is. I close my eyes, understanding and accepting what is soon to come: my fate. I hear a whoosh as the blade cuts through the air. I feel a sharp, quick pain. Now, emptiness. There is nothing but emptiness.