Today’s words: Distribute, Homely, Tend, Bucolical
Word count: 578
Completion time: 1 hour 15 mins
Summary: Sometimes it’s
impossible to escape your fate, but does that justify it?
~
My home life is the definition of
bucolical – I live on my parents’ farm, the closest neighbour is a half hour’s
walk away, and the beautiful green countryside rolls out for miles. It can be a
little restrictive, but it’s homely.
I’ve only been to London once,
but it was my first and last. I was painfully overwhelmed: it was hard to walk
without bumping into people, the air felt dank and dirty, and outside tube
stations, people in yellow jackets would distribute newspapers...well, I say ‘distribute’,
but it was more like slapping them at your chest and urging you to take one
lest you be taken to an alley and stabbed; that’s what I heard happens (it’s
probably a myth). So what I’m trying to say is – country life suited me just
fine; I relished my time alone.
The downside about living on a
farm is that I have to get up early every day to help out, but that didn’t
compare to watching what the animals went through. My best friends were all
eventually killed for food or when they were no longer profitable. I falsely
convinced myself that maybe it’ll be different, maybe they’ll let me keep my 1000th
best friend this time. I shouldn’t have formed a bond with them in the first
place, but you can’t prevent love (I’ve tried).
Each time I’d tend the animals, I’d
whisper into their fluffy or feathered ears that it was all going to be okay,
that it didn’t matter what happened because I loved each and every one of them.
That was just a lie I told myself to feel better.
“It’s a business, Clara, we can’t
keep these animals. They need to be reared for their produce or sold. You want to be able to eat, right? Anyway,
you’d better wash your face and look presentable, I’ve arranged for you to meet
with that young lad from the farm across the way. He’s a good boy, so make sure
you get along.”
I suppose I was like the animals,
too – brought up to be a nice little girl so that a farmer’s son would find me
charming enough to marry. I’m
surprised my parents went through the trouble of naming me.
One day I decided to challenge our
system, so I went to my mother who was topping up the chicken feed...
“Hey, mum?”
She answered without turning
around. “Yes, pet?”
“Is it okay if we kill your dog
and eat him once he’s plump enough?”
She dropped the feed, whipped her
head around and looked at me like I’d just summoned Satan and asked her to be
the first sacrifice. “What in the blue hell are you saying??”
“I just mean, if we’re ever low
on food...”
She gained on me, eyes blazing. “How
could you say such a thing, are you ill?? Did you speak to one of the town folk??
We’re not Chinese, how dare you even insinuate eating Clarence! I’ve a right
mind to slap you in the head, you wicked child!”
I jumped. I should have been
scared but instead, I was confused; why was she so mad when it came to the dog?
“I’m sorry...I don’t know what got into me.” She stared at me, more confused
and terrified than I probably looked. “...You want the roast chicken for
dinner, is that right?”
Her face softened a little. “Yes,”
she turned back to the chickens. “Put the oven on.”
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