Your head sinks. She closes her eyes. On her last night. She does not know. Neither can she, but she feels it. Your last night in captivity. Your last night before the freedom of death. She will be taken out. She will briefly take a look at the sun. The grass. The wide. The first time. The last time. Then they will be driven onto the van. She will already be so exhausted, exhausted from a life of suffering and pain in which she could barely take a step forward or backward, that she will not make it through those few feet.
She will collapse. Then someone will grab the rope and drag it up. She won’t fight back. She has never resisted. Let it happen. In every moment full of hope. In spite of everything. Whatever. Even if she didn’t name it. Couldn’t name. Until the end she will wait for a way out. The grass will smell sweet. The sun will warm your sore body. For a few moments. The loading ramp with the sharp grooves over which it is brutally dragged will leave deep furrows on its battered body. She will not notice it because her whole body is aching. It won’t matter anymore. When unloading, she will try to get up again. If she succeeds, she will walk through the narrow corridors with her head held high, towards her execution, which it is actually not, because there is a ritual associated with an execution. Mass death in chord. If she is lucky, the shot that stuns her will be spot. Many are out of luck and experience bleeding with full consciousness. It will smell of fear and tears. Screams boom across the room. They’ll echo off the walls. It will be hard to bear. Even if it will hardly make a difference anymore. But as long as life stirs, it will press with all relentlessness to stay. Despite the absurdity. Because of the absurdity?
She lies with her eyes closed, dawning towards her last night. The baby that she was is back in the box. She froze so terribly. Also because of the winter cold and the wind. Even more because of the loneliness. She had screamed for a few days. Why did they take her away from her mother? She had to be very close, because she heard her lamentations, which she recognized among all the others. Still, she wasn’t allowed to see her. She didn’t understand. There is nothing to understand about it either. Moments that are so absurd and grotesque that they are beyond all possibility to understand. Moments from the matrix. But so real and normal that they almost provoke indifference. A small box. In front of it a fence. She stood outside and stuck out her tongue. Snowflakes landed on it. It was a bit like sucking. She enjoyed this game. For a little while. Then she heard the wailing again and withdrew into the box, curling up. She made herself very small, as if she could escape the cold and loneliness. Later, when she no longer wanted to suckle, she came to the other children. Again, in a box. Bigger this time. When it was big enough, it was put in another box, got a rope around its neck and stood in the same place over and over again. One day someone came along and put his whole arm in her vagina. It passed. Then she felt the life in her for the first time. A baby grew up in her body. It was in her for nine months. A protective haven. The only one she would have in her whole life, undisturbed and content, but also unconsciously.
Go to part 2 here