Chickens of The Dawn

Memories

Jenny honestly considered telling her brother, but he couldn't help her, she knew this. One thing was for sure, she wasn't going anywhere. Chickens weren't superstitious creatures, and they sure as hell didn't believe in any God. No one was gonna help them, and if there was some rooster in the sky, then he was damned by how much hate he got. No God was there to aid them, otherwise they might have a better life.

Bethany, a beautiful red hen, strutted towards her, where Jenny still sat on the ground.
"Are you alright, darling?" She asked in a crisp accent, her tongue lingering on the 'da', making it sound dramatic.
Jenny got to her feet. "Yeah..." She muttered.
NOPE. She thought bitterly. I WAS JUST BLOODY ASSAULTED BY A VOICE IN MY HEAD, DO I LOOK LIKE I'M ALRIGHT?!
Bethany held up a foot and straightened Jenny's neck feathers, which had been overturned by her tumble.
"Thanks..." She mumbled before finding her brother in the crowd of chickens. He obviously hadn't seen anything and went ahead with going out to the nearby water trough. Hawthorn was his name, but Jenny rarely called him that. Instead she called him Bro-thorn, which they thought was pretty funny.
Hawthorn raised his head and gulped back a swig of the dirty water, polluted by the muddy beaks that took drinks there all day long. Great wire walls towered around them, keeping the flock caged in from the outside world. Everyone knew there was a hole on the left side at the bottom, but they also knew the consequences.
Escaping meant execution the following morn, and if they managed to get away from the farm, the night always came to give them a second wave of horrors.
Hawthorn looked at the wire, then at Jenny.
"I bet Mum would be proud." He whispered.
Jenny frowned and gazed at her brother, feeling grief for her mother and father rise up in her chest.
Not now! She scolded herself. Stay strong for Hawthorn. He needs it.
But the memories replayed themselves in her head.

"Jen, Jen, Jen, Jenny bird!" Her mother clucked affectionately. Jenny, a young, fuzzy chick, ran around the corner of a hay bale and crashed into the hen. She peeped and looked up at her mother. Tabitha was her name, and she was a gorgeous chicken. The farmer's daughter had shown her in fairs several times, she was that beautiful.
"My lovely girl," the black hen crooned. "Listen, Mum and Da are going to go soon. Once you're a week old, we are going to go. I've expired, your Da has served his time, we will leave."
Jenny didn't understand. Where? Where would they go? She peeped and screamed and tried to get her mother to answer, but the hen had a distant, pained flare in her eyes.
Tabitha was not coming back.

By the day Jenny turned a week old, she had nearly forgotten of their conversation. She was a chick, what did she have to fear?
Her first feather had budged, and she squealed with delight when she saw it. Mum and Da must see! She was almost a chicken!
She raced out of their nest, nearly trampling her brother, and went to check outside, where her parents usually were in the mornings.
She scanned the flock, but Tabitha's midnight blue feathers were no where to be seen.
She peeped for her mother, but to no avail.
Then a somber looking hen, Sunday, approached Jennifer.
"Aye...are you Tabitha and Rooney's lil' one?" She asked sadly.
Jenny nodded, unsure what to think of this.
"Your Ma and Pa aren't comin' back, lass." She shook her head. "They were taken this morning, they were. What a shame, what a shame. Tragic, isn't it?"
The little chick felt her heart speed up. She knew exactly what had happened.
'Taken.'
She had heard that word before. It described a victim of murder. Execution. Humans would bring out the log, a sharp blade, and a sac. They went into the barn, scooped up the chosen chicken, and threw them into the bag. They struggled, who wouldn't? The others sat in silence, helpless to stop it. Then they heard a sharp cluck of agony.
Then nothing.

The memory stopped.
Jenny didn't want to remember the rest, when she saw midnight blue feathers blow across the lawn.
She shook her head to clear it, and Hawthorn sighed with misery.
With heavy hearts, the pair returned to the barn and snuggled up in a nesting box.

The hens clucked and crowed below, going about their business. All seemed to be well.
But it was not.