Last night, in dreams, I dreamt I was the slaughterhouse man. Sheep were bleating passively; no clue what was in store–one by one, into the chute, following friends to the killing floor. I was covered in gore. Lifting the pneumatic piston to their foreheads; I’d be covered more.
I disliked the monotony, but didn’t mind the task: fire the bolt, hear the hiss, the sheep stares back, eyes lifeless. They slump down to the floor, then get piled with the last.
I woke to find myself no longer in the pen where I had slept. I was in the chute with the rest; only one sheep separated me from the man from my dream. I was next. I watched my friend splatter red across his chest and apathetically moved forward, to embrace his gift upon my forehead. That cold metal kiss, whispering the quiet hiss, of following friends to death.
