Where’s Molly

Present
2022

The loud crunch of blunt teeth biting through bone is a lullaby I could fall asleep to for the rest of my life.

I wrinkle my nose.

The obnoxious sound of lip-smacking that follows is not.

“I can teach you to respect me, but apparently, learning manners is asking too much,” I mutter, my upper lip curling in disgust when bloody drool splatters onto the plastic tarp before my worn boots.

Gross.

I’m in my barn, crouched on the outside of their pens, keeping my distance while the five massive pigs eat their dinner. They can very easily grab me through the fence if I dare to get close enough, and that is not an attack I’m likely to survive. They’re incredibly strong, and if I do manage to escape, I’ll definitely be missing a few limbs.

It makes me wonder why the world is so afraid of a zombie apocalypse, when we’re already surrounded by animals more than capable of tearing us apart and devouring every last fucking bit of our flesh and bones.

We’re just lucky they haven’t figured that out yet. Or rather, they haven’t figured out how to escape the prisons we put them in.

When finished, they eagerly sniff the hay, searching for their next piece.

“Last one,” I warn them, as if they can even understand me.

Sadly enough, they’re the only ones I can talk to most days. My human interaction is limited, and this pig farm gets awfully lonely. But it’s something I chose for myself.

And I don’t fucking regret it.

I toss the rest of the leg at their feet, watching them tear into the severed limb in earnest. Tendons, muscles, and veins shred in a matter of seconds, followed by that satisfying crunch.

Right then, my phone in my back pocket buzzes. Sighing, I slide it out and answer without bothering to see who it is. I already know.

“Is it finished?” the female voice asks tonelessly. She’s been calling me for the last four years, and I still don’t know her name.

“Yup,” I answer. “They just ate the last of him.”

“Good. We’ll contact you when the next subject is due to arrive.”

The phone goes dead before I can respond. Not that I would’ve bothered to—that’s always been the extent of our conversations.

My human interaction is very limited.

Especially because that’s what my pets like to eat for dinner.

“Thanks, Petunia,” I chirp to myself. Every time she hangs up, I give her a new name. One day, I’m confident I’ll have guessed her real name correctly at least once, though I’d never know.

I have a feeling it’s not Petunia, but crazier things have happened.

I double-check that the last of the man I fed to the pigs is completely consumed, and then I start the tedious process of cleaning their pens, my table, and the tools, along with burning his hair and clothes and scattering his powdered teeth in the mountains behind my house. Ensuring every last trace of Carl Forthright is gone.

He who was once a rapist and child trafficker is now pig shit.

So fucking poetic.

“You’re lucky I love you little assholes because you guys are fucking messy,” I complain to the snorting pigs, wrinkling my nose when I spot a chunk of flesh on the floor outside their pen.

They’re absolute pains in my ass most days, but I wouldn’t trade them for the world.

They keep me sane.

And the devil knows that’s hanging on by a goddamn thread.