Five quick jerks of the arm were all it took. The blood
drained quickly, collecting in the metal bowl placed below the sheep’s neck.
The legs kicked sporadically; quick, surprised jerks trying to carry their
owner horizontally across the grass. A few words had been uttered – men raised
and lowered their hands over their faces – a prayer of triumphant gratitude or
a posture of submission before this life now draining out onto the ground. Ten
minutes before the sheep had been huddled against two others, pressed back into
a corner of the stable, eyes darting from one escape route to the next. It had
executed its plan poorly. The kicking slowed, then stopped, the only movement
coming now from the methodical cuts of a knife.
No comments:
Post a Comment