The Dogs are hungry.
Funny I never noticed but I do now.
They are always lurking at the shadows. In silent alleys and deserted plains. Prowling, waiting.
I don’t think many other see the Dogs.
They are too good in hiding. And pretending under their smiling facades.
But when all is hush and silent and none is around, the Dogs bare their fangs.
To slowly devour the Meat. Meat. Soft, tender and fresh.
Pink and young and weak as the first rays of dawn.
The Dogs are leering. Tearing the Meat apart, piece by piece. Gnawing, brutal and rough.
Never letting go. Never stopping. Until they are full and pleasant.
Left alone is Meat which is no more. All that is left, is dried brittle Bone.
I used to think the Dogs belong to another world. A world where I only see them frozen on the pages of the newspaper.
But now I know better.
They are walking among us. Inflicting pain just to satisfy. Their lust.
Some are discovered, and prosecuted. But never enough.
More emerged every day. In this damned corrupted community.
At night, when it is cold and dark and I am all alone I dreamt of them.
Of slaughtering and butchering them. Of tearing them apart. Hacking and stabbing. And I always cry. Cried for the self that I lost. The self that they have stolen.
Because I used to be Meat.
But now I am just Bone. Dried, old and brittle.
I wonder even as I am writing this if another Meat has befallen to this fate.
And if the Meat screamed, begging the Dog to stop.
But if a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?
