Call me...

Call me Baxter. They made it up and that's what they call me. It is a lovely place where I reside, there are no trees and the ground cracks like an old woman's smile. The place I live is small and has four rooms for eating, breeding, raising and numbering. Outside the one window I can see shantalambs shuffle around aimlessly, nipping one another on their bright feathered behinds as the sun sinks down into the ground. It is dark. I flick on light #7 and dial night number 684958 into my computer. They know I am in my house. They can see me press up against the humming fridge in the corner to attempt to escape from the stifling heat. Most importantly, they can see my disgusting son run his toy trucks over the carpet, creating small lines across the living room floor. He sits there content and amused, his protruding belly spilling over the elastic band of his Men's Undergarments 87s, the only boy in our damarkse who wears this size. His number is visible on his lower back and the dark tag hangs from his left ear. In one week he will be slaughtered like the rest of them. They created the round ups and soon this full cheeked, sickening, innocent child will be killed by them, and they will distribute his meat amongst the damarkses. Besides the Shantalambs, there is no meat here. There is nothing here. Nothing but numbers. Numbers and yellow eyed husbands and filthy swine children who suck the very air out of my lungs. Until round ups.