They all suggested each other, but in the end; the least strong eventually stepped forward. Weedy arms ready on a meek and feeble frame. He licked his lips and carefully navigated across the slippery mud.
The sun was still up, but wouldn’t be for much longer. They had to be quick. Only last week the pig had gotten caught in some barb wire. Around its back leg the wire dug deep into the pink flesh and it had squalled and screamed for hours as the spikes penetrated and scrapped at its trotter. The blood had dripped down its leg and pooled, mixing into the wet mud creating a pungent molasses.
It had not recovered well, and the other animals had kept their distance since. Though it had not long ago suckled at its mother’s teat, it was now time to end its life. He picked up the knife preparing to cut its throat in one quick single flash, but as he got closer his expression changed; he suddenly leapt forward and grabbed the pig from behind, throttling it. Choking off its air. It bucked and whined, flailing around hoping for something to help it. A divine hand to lift it free, to save it from its untimely end. He squeezed with glee, his own eyes popping like the pigs; craving for time to stand still while he devoured his enjoyment.
At eight o’clock they sat around the table. Opulent dining hours for such lowly classed souls. The clock in the hallway chimed the hour, shaking off the ghosts which had collected in the silence. Someone dusted grace off their tongue as the meat dripped off their plates. The room hung with the air of cooked meat and revulsion.
Although hungry, no-one ate. They all looked at him.
And he started to cry.