Perhaps they don’t know I’m here. She looked down at her feet; the matted pieces of straw mixed in with the dirt on the floor. Bars on all sides, inches from her body. It was a cage of some sort, she could not remember being put here, or why she had been captured. All of her sisters were gone, and her mother; not a glimmer of what had happened to them.
She conjured a glimpse of having being placed here; well, not placed, she was thrown in, slammed against the bars and then had passed out from the ordeal.
There was little light; maybe it was night.
The time rolled excruciatingly by. The dim light offered her a total inability to recognize as any one day rolled into the next. It took only a few weeks before she lost track of time all together. The food she received came intermittent at best, and was always the same. No room to move, her food soon mixed with the feces and vomit, her young body reacting to the vile circumstances. She was never taken from her prison; a jolt of water spray would wash away the evidence of the inhumanity each time it piled up.
As the months registered the steady cruel monotonous repetition of filth and deprivation, her mind mercifully blacked out any trace of who she was. She would chew on the bars until blood rolled down her chin-never enough to end her misery. Even the aches and pains of not being able to stretch or move merely turned into a dull acclamation and acceptance that life was far from being precious; that life was nothing more than a mad dance with sublime loss of reason and spirit, a grueling multiple of continuing torturing days on a poor soul lost to existence, forgotten, alone, yet made to endure against all of hope.
By the time she was taken from her cage, it matters not. She no longer recognized the sun or the ground she stood on for the first time since being caged. Movement was a strange and difficult ordeal. The sores on her side long since ignored in their festering now healed from something they had given her. She noted briefly in the next few cycles of feeding she got only some water and a pricking sensation in her side from what they stabbed her with. The slop she was usually served was no longer being given to her – not really missed, just a last notion of a life never lived.
She arrived at the pig slaughter house and gave one last cry; and she left behind her misery.