Theme: We’re all using the same photo to fictionalize a backstory.
The day Pink was born there was no sunshine. On her birthday it was certain that she would leave the world she was just brought into within the following 180 days. Before her birth she was damned to die by the butcher. She was never to see daylight, or rain, or night. All she saw and felt were her siblings, the teats of her mother and the warmth of the red light nurturing her. Her only purpose in life was to gain 220lbs.
Next to her eight siblings she lay in the mud. Her mommy stood next to her, chained to a fence. Standing. All day long. All night long. Her mommy looked stoically at the wall – her only view for her entire life. Her mind was blank.
If she could think, she would go crazy. Literally. Her mother was kept so tight within the chains, her muscles had no need to build.
If her mommy was released from the chains she would collapse from exhaustion because she never really used her muscles before – Mommy needed to stand still so she would not kill her babies, but nurture them. Her mother´s life in prison was a necessary measurement.
If her mommy could move she was likely to roll over her babies. Imagine the coming out of 661 lbs rolling over her tiny little children. Mostly blood and a few baby corpses laying around.
Cramped confines made it almost impossible for Pink to move anyway. Her mother’s discomfort increased her chances of survival in the first weeks.
However, Pinks life stank. To Pink that was what the world smelled like. She lay in her poop, her siblings’s poop and her mother’s poop. The temperature did not help the smell. It was hot. Really hot. So she drank a lot from her mother’s teats. Pink could not sweat. So she had to pee a lot. It made her itch when she slept where she just had peed. But she did not sleep much anyway. She was so thirsty and had to fight her siblings to get enough milk from the teats.
Her lifetime was measured by weight. When Pink reached 55 lbs she had to leave her mother. Well, her teats really. Someone parted the mother from her children by beating them into a new world. A bigger room filled with 100 others just like Pink. And with thousands of flies. Their buzzing was a constant music to Pink’s life now; a daily routine of eating bruised grain and fighting for water. Some of her siblings were not strong enough. One of her sisters was half eaten by the group after a fight for food. The taste of flesh was new to Pink. She did not mind.
Sometimes the water tasted different. But she did not appreciate it for what it was. Humans call it antibiotics. It helped her battle the diseases that spread fast because the piggery was so packed with other Pinks and all their poop and urine.
That day she weighed 220lbs she was forced again to an unknown place. Beaten into a pen similar to the one her mother was chained in. Slowly walking in line with her former roommates. Pink walked until an electric shock killed her silently. Her body was then hanged to a hock and sliced into pieces.
Pink was never loved. Pink was neither survived by any of her siblings nor her mother. Nobody ever knew about her. Pink’s purpose in life was fulfilled only after she died. Her leftovers were smashed and pressed in diverse compositions and then wrapped into plastic. Now, she has new names: Bratwurst, Hackfleisch, Frankfurter. Her remains were sent to supermarkets with air conditioning, displayed right next to the refreshment area.
She was tasty when I had her for lunch and then again for dinner. Or was it Pink?
Well, something like her at least.