Father is coming for me. He has taken all the others, I am the last.
I know he isn't our real father--although, that's what it was like in the early days--and I guess that is why he can do what he is doing.
The process has been so slow, taking one of us at a time, hands becoming more and more steeped in blood. I watched them all go, fear building in my heart as our numbers dwindled.
Finally it was down to my last brother and myself. I watched him go, wondering what was crueler: seeing him hauled off to be murdered, or the knowledge that I would be next?
No.
I think the worst part is no one will know, nor care, what has gone on here. Even if I could tell someone, they would not see our suffering.
You are in the room now. I smell your scent mingled with the reek of blood and gore. Is that my brothers' flesh trapped beneath your nails? Perhaps my sisters' between your teeth?
Resigned, I don't bother to cry out my distress. What good would it do? Instead I just stare at you, black eyes cold and hateful.
Remember when these eyes were filled with nothing but love? You reared us; we became your children. So tender and patient you were when you held the bottle to my lips. Oddly, you are gentle now as you press a bolt gun to my head.
Some of that old trust flickers in my eyes, for I know this will not hurt. I will not feel my death, everything will just end and I shall be no more. You were our father but we meant nothing to you, save a warm meal. Just another lamb for the slaughter.
My four little cloven feet sit firm beneath me, holding myself and my pride in place. I refuse to take my eyes off you, waiting for you to pull the trigger. Still defiant in the face of oblivion.
Click.
I was right, I didn't feel it.
I am nothing now, but a mess of blood stained wool and mangled flesh. Nothing.
You took it all.
Why?