Goat

Part I - Here

Harriet was buried deep down at the back of the house, my tongue somewhere down there with her.
My throat was dry and scratchy from screaming, my eyes stinging from my tears. My entire mouth hurt, primarily the stump where my tongue used to be. I held Olivia close to me, as close as I could, doing my best to hum a tune to her, but I just sounded squeaky in my traumatised state.
It was dark, so I knew it was late. The old remnants of hay made my skin itch, and I felt bugs biting me. I propped Olivia up on my arm, trying to make her as comfortable as possible on this harsh dirt floor as I awaited his return.

The barn he'd locked us in was a grim place: the wood could give splinters, there was a hole in the roof, and droppings and wet spots on the floor, which we had to sleep on due to the lack of bedding. He came back every other day and threw food scraps at me. Some days he'd come with a large bucket and tell me to sit in it, and he washed me as I gripped hold of Olivia; I wouldn't let him hold her; every time he asked, I would pull back, and he'd give up.

On one particular day, though, he almost ripped her from my arms. I shook my head so violently I became dizzy, but kept a tight hold on my daughter. Again he gave up, but this time he yelled at me, so loud I almost covered my ears.
That night I slept but a couple hours. I didn't hear the barn door opening, or feel him taking Olivia from me, but I heard the cries and snaps and then silence of my precious baby. To this I woke, to see him kneeling before me, holding my beloved daughter. He passed her back to me, and I shook as I took her back. I could barely hold her. She was so still, so broken — so lifeless. He had killed my poor helpless baby — murdered her so easily and just walked away.
I sobbed over my daughters lifeless body well into the morning, and throughout the next day and night. I didn't eat. I didn't drink. I didn't move. I just curled up with Olivia's limp body.