The lights never go out here. I don't know how long I've been in this place. Time is measured in feedings, in the shuffle of feet, in the endless chorus of nervous clucks. We are packed so tightly together that I barely remember what it feels like to stretch my wings. But today is different. The gate opened. The old hens at the back stopped making noise when it happened. They only stared. I've seen birds leave through that gate before. Hundreds of them. None have ever returned. The workers entered carrying crates. Their boots splashed through the filth beneath us. One by one they grabbed chickens from the crowd. Feathers flew. Wings beat against the air. Terrified cries filled the room. Then silence, as each bird disappeared into the darkness beyond the doorway. My turn came when a hand closed around my body. I screamed. The others scattered as I was lifted away. For the first time in my life, I saw beyond the walls of the shed. Long metal corridors. Bright lights. The smell. The smell was wrong. Sharp. Metallic. Like rust and rain. Like blood. The line moved forward. Chickens hung upside down from moving hooks, their feet trapped in metal clamps. Their eyes rolled wildly. Some shrieked. Some were already silent. The conveyor carried them into a tunnel. I watched the bird in front of me disappear behind a curtain of rubber flaps. A second later, a wet sound echoed from beyond. Then another. And another. The line kept moving. I twisted my head, trying to escape the clamp. My wings beat helplessly against empty air. The birds behind me screamed. The birds ahead vanished. One by one. One by one. The curtain approached. The smell of blood became overwhelming. I passed through the flaps. A man stood there. In his hand was a blade stained red. The floor beneath him was a river. He reached for me. And in that final moment, I understood what had happened to every chicken that had left the shed. The gate was not a door. It was a mouth. And the building had been eating us all along. #nsfw #chickendeath #eatmorchikin
