Inhuman Farm

Part 3

In the following weeks, the boy changed his clothes to only his own clothes. He was helping the man in the fieldwork more often; he had no spare time, and went to his shed exhausted each night. But his belly was consistently full at waking and before sleep. At the man’s house, he ate and cleaned after himself, and sometimes the man had him clean up inside. At first, it took a long while, since there was so much to do, but now it only took a few minutes to maintain, and the man sometimes talked to him about the objects inside the house, and their functions. The boy had an idea. “Why don’t we both eat on plates? It would be easier to clean, and faster.”

“You can’t.”

“Why not?” The boy was familiarizing with the man.

“You live in the shed. Like the animals. So you can’t use the things that I do.”

“I live there, but I know how to use those things. I can show you.”

“No. These things are mine. Piss off.”

The boy stopped eating at the man’s house. Why was the man making him feel bad? He didn’t have to. The boy realized. Animals don’t hurt each other all the time. And when they fight, it’s because they want to take more food, or something. This man must want more, but he doesn’t finish everything he has. He has enough for more, but stops me. That means animals are better than humans. Or, the man is worse than animals. He was certain that if their roles were reversed, then he wouldn’t have been like that to the man. There was enough for them all. The man was doing this because the thought he was better- like how the horse was bigger and stronger than the pig. The man wanted to use his power.

Late at night, when the boy was sure the man was sleeping, he took a rock from the woods and smashed a window in the house. He pushed the jagged edges out as fast as he could around the frame, cutting his fingers, but fear made it painless. He climbed in, landing on his tattered shoes. Having worked inside often, he accessed the shotgun hidden inside the ironing board cabinet that the man used to shoot ducks when they were in season. He pulled the top with all his strength, and it clicked. Now he had more power. The lights turned on, and the boy swung around, the gun pointing at the man.

“Let it go!” cried the man.

“No! Y-you’re worse than me, I’m not scared of you!”

“What do you want?” The man was scared, the boy knew. They both were.

“I-I wana sleep on a real bed, and eat how you do, and live in a real house. I don’t want you to hit me, I don’t wana live with the animals, I-I-” the boy sobbed, “I wana r-real n-name, not ‘Sheep,’ or-or-” He blinked the tears clear, focusing on the man.

“You want to live like me?” asked the man.

The boy nodded. He didn’t want to be quite like the man, but it was too hard for him to express what he felt.

“Okay,” said the man softly. “I’m sorry. I know I haven’t been nice to you. Your whole life, I should have let you...well…” The man took a step forward. “Give me the gun, and-”

“No! Stay back! You’re lying!”

“Sorry!" cried the man, stopping and holding his hands up, "Sorry! I meant, give me the gun, and I’ll tell you your real name. I’ll give you your own plate, and a cup and spoon and fork. I’ll throw away all those suits in the shed and give you a mattress instead of the mat. And, I’ll tell you where the people you came from are- your parents.”

Parents. The word resonated in his mind. Somewhere, I have parents. People who care about me. He imagined them, faceless, curling up with them on a cold day to keep warm instead of a blanket, letting- no, giving those words that made the warmth come from inside, the kind that made him stand taller and his chin higher. He imagined them enveloping him with their arms, gentle instead of violent, and calling him by something, someone, who he really was. Was it even real? Could something that good even exist? The boy smiled.

The man rushed, grabbing for the gun. The boy hesitated; if he killed the man, he would never know. The man jerked the gun out of his hands and swung, cracking the boy in the head, and there was another crack as his head caromed off the table, and another as his body hit the floor, and one more as the man aimed the gun and pulled the trigger.