[wolfbittenpoet]

The sawdust was down to soak up the blood. It was the time of slaughter. He had learned early never to name the pigs. Pigs were food on hoof. They were only fed so they could be eaten. Now he was covered in gore yet the work was nearly over and as long as the meat smoked well there would be plenty food this winter. A little bit of blood was worth it his and theirs. He walked slowly the weight of the day weighing heavily upon him. He stopped at the pump in the garden and began to wash. The water ran pink and finally clear. He stripped off his shirt and continued to wash away the sweat now that the gore was gone. His back ached and as he stretched he glimpsed her. The ghost of his dreams.