Inhuman Farm

Part 1

"Pig!" called a voice, then three habitual kicks to the door reverberated through the shed. The boy sighed. It would be a hard day, then. He rolled out of his straw mat and took the pig suit off of the hook in the wall, beside other suits: horse, sheep, cow, dog, and chicken. Shaking it relatively clean, he put the clothes he was wearing on the mat and donned the suit. He crawled over the dirt, and past the chicken coop towards the pigsty, twisting the loose folds of fabric around his body to ensure cleanliness.

He reached the trench off to the side of the pigsty and opened the flap in the suit, wondering how food could turn into that. He used leaves blown from the nearby trees. Luckily, it wasn't fall or winter, so it was easy to find them.

He climbed through the beams of the enclosure, only hands and feet making contact with the damp ground; it was easier to be spotless in the pastures. The pigs were still sleeping, their occasional snuffling wafting in the warm dawn air. It would be hot later.

The empty trough sat opposite from where the pigs slept. In time, the rooster called, and the hens swarmed and strutted around a man as he showered them with corn. He fed all the other animals, reaching the pigpen last.

"Already here eh? Greedy pig," the man said. The boy said nothing. Pigs weren't meant to talk, they were only meant to do their job. If they didn't, they would be forced. He was close to the trough because he didn't want to get caught in the mad rush of animals when the man came. It would have gotten the suit dirty, and he had to eat before the others finished it. He stared as the slops filled the trough; they were the dirty and inedible kind; he would get sick eating them. He crawled away, hoping at least to keep clean enough to avoid a beating in the evening. "Wait," said the man. There was half an apple in his hand, and he made as though to toss it, letting the boy prepare. He did throw it, but away from the boy, towards another pig, which was happy at its good fortune of better food. The boy rushed, but it was already inhaled away. And in his scramble, the suit had gotten muddy. His eyes widened, filling with tears, staring at the man, hoping to wordlessly communicate. He only had a slice of dirty bread and a carrot yestersay. But the man did nothing, and the boy turned to hide his face, struggling to stay silent, sobs staying inside until the man left. The day passed, and the boy huddled, preserving his energy and staying in the shade, sipping water from where the other animals drank. It might be time, he thought, to go to his house. I need food.

He remembered going to the man’s home once in his life. There had been loud sounds and yelling and laughter. It was a strange day, because he had been tied up in the morning in his shed instead of staying with the animals. The light in the cracks of the shed changed from nothing to pale gold to yellow to orange to darkness again. The ropes at night were looser than the ropes of morning, and he tugged free, but not before wetting what little he wore; he just couldn’t hold it in for the whole day. The door was locked, but the floor had a groove beneath the wooden walls, and he slithered out. He immediately used the water basin beside the shed to wash his clothes, squeezing them as dry as he could before he put them on again. It was okay to be upright in these clothes, so he walked, hiding behind the chicken coop. Through the windows and the open door, people, all bigger than him, were talking, eating, and drinking. The food was on flat, round...things, and the drinks were in things that looked like a clear bucket, small enough to hold in a single hand. But the stuff they were drinking looked like pee. Ugh. He giggled.

One of the shorter people with long hair glanced away from another person and looked directly at him. He pulled back and fell, heart trying to escape his body. What would happen? Sweat ran down his face, but he dared not, trembling. The man appeared and looked over his shoulder.

“C’mere,” the man said, and he covered the boy’s mouth and yanked his arm so there was a pop and tears flowed. In the shed, the man asked questions and didn’t wait for replies, kicking until the boy failed to react.

The following weeks were painful, and he was allowed to stay in. Each movement was torture, and he couldn’t get up by himself, and his arm hurt until another painful pop by the man fixed it.

He decided to go. Even a regular beating would be fine now. Besides, he wasn’t tied down now like last time, so maybe the man wouldn’t care as much if he got out. He hadn’t realized it at the time. He was little then, as tall as the man’s hip, but he was twice as old now, he guessed, so he had gotter much smarter. The depression beneath the shed wall was usually too small now, but he had gotten thinner recently. His back might scrape the wood, or his ribs would grate the ground, but that was okay. He would say please and sir and thank you. The man liked it when he said those things. Perhaps crawl to the door as well for good measure. Then he could eat. In the shed, he drank from a bucket stocked with fresh water he had gotten from the nearby river. Then he left for the man's house.