Off To The Slaughterhouse

• Mark Bautista, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2020

The poor hen’s very last squawks were her desperate last cry for mercy. I could see her weary eyelids droop furthermore as she braced for the inevitable; she was off to the slaughterhouse. Just like every other hen before, her time has come.

One week ago, Feathers was feeling under weather one day. She was not laying as usual, so I placed her in my lap, stroking her delicate apricot plumage. Her crop felt fine, although she did seem a bit stiff. I figured the weary Orpington needed rest, so I placed her back inside the coop. Chickens are resilient creatures, but Feathers is tougher. So, on that day, I thought she was just going to be all right tomorrow but oh no, I was wrong.

Father was a strict man and had a very harsh procedure with our flock. He was more interested investing our eggs to the U.K egg industry than to properly raise our chickens.

“If the hen does not lay anymore, it’s off with her head.” he told firmly.

Bewildered at this, I gave him a piece of my mind.

“Why would you do such a thing father? Do you not care for Feathers to get better?”

He gave me a bitter look and scolded, “The hen is getting ill! She will be useless! And what did I specifically tell you young lady? Do not name the hens! You will become more attached to them.”

He then pointed to my bedroom door, which I had to reluctantly go in. There was no use in arguing with him; he made up his mind.

That night, I tossed and turned in my sheets. Feather was going to die; I could not do anything about it. I felt hopeless, like a lion in a cage. Tears were dripping from my cheeks as I remembered all the good times with her. When we bought her as a chick, when she rested in my lap and when she laid her very first eggs. I remember them being a beautiful light brown shade, resting in the straw of the coop. The nostalgia hit me hard that night as I cried myself to sleep.

So as the week progressed, Feathers looked increasingly pale. Her illness was catching up to her. I did not see her a lot that week as she was usually in the hen house or in the bushes. Nevertheless, it seemed like she knew what was coming.

On Saturday morning, Father grabbed his axe. He held up Feathers at her neck and went into the slaughterhouse. I could not bear to watch, so I went on our spruce bench in the yard. And with one swift chop, Feathers was no more. Blinking through my tears I stared dead straight at a bush.... her favorite one. Oh my god... Something was in there! I went closer for an inspection; I couldn’t believe it.

Her last parting gift---three gorgeous eggs.