Meat Factory
You can smell it. That’s the worst thing. Worse than the sights of stretched, cured skin or of bodies being fed into the grinder. Worse than the sound of bone snapping and crunching or of children and men sobbing in the pens. It’s the smell that really gets to you in this place, not of rotting flesh but of fresh, treated and lovely for the consumer.
No matter how hard you look, it doesn’t actually seem there’s a door to this place. There must be some sort of way in because you weren’t always here but, perhaps more distressingly, there doesn’t seem to be a way out. And every step you take from where you started takes you past further horrors. A pile of bodies waiting to be tossed into the hungry grinder. Men and women chained like cattle in a line to have their throats slit. Some weep, some scream but others are ghostly silent as the grave, dead already.
There’s another smell in this place, just as strong as the flesh. Saltwater.
Tears.
Notations & Nihilism 