Foie Gras

'Death is but a moment.'

A pin-drop silence and glares of empty eyes welcomed me as I made my way into the room. The corridor was filled with stale air, sharp to the senses. It permeated every crack of the decaying walls, as if it were desperate to escape. Trapped, like the rest of them there. The further in I ventured, the stronger the taste of the air became, hanging on at the back of my throat. Unpleasant, to say the least. The sooner this was over, the better.

I could feel those eyes on my back. All of them stood helpless, consigned to their miserable fate. I couldn't even make eye contact with any of the pairs of eyes that looked my way. They would die, yes, but it wasn't my fault. I didn't send them here. Society did. Still, I felt partially responsible, seeing as I was the man tasked with the burden of carrying out the dirty work. I took a minute to gather my nerves. A slight mistake on my part. The nerves had bundled up into one giant ball of nerves, and I was starting to feel a little rattled. They could sense it.

A large butcher knife was what they gave me. Brand new, it gleamed in the rays of sunlight that managed to creep through the holes in the grey wall. His bare neck was laid out in front of me across a large wooden block. It stunned me for a moment, how frail life really is, in that I could choose whether he lived or died in that split second when the knife was raised above him. I held my breath and brought down my weapon with as much force as I could muster. 

Poor duck didn't even quack.


ninotaziz | 21 December 2011 at 22:48

The duck was happy. Those destined for foie gras live in misery. The knife was God sent.

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