Shenanigans

“We’re all livestock,” I say to myself, but no one around me seems to hear what I said. “Even if we deny it.” 

The bar is at the perfect level of occupancy. Any fuller, and it would be deafening. Any emptier, and you might become self-conscious for being in a bar on a Tuesday night. And it's perfect to openly speak my mind without judgement.

I sip my beer. It’s a sour beer that’s meant to taste like grapefruit. Instead, it tastes like putrid orange peels. I drink it anyways. It’s still alcohol, after all. It’s supposed to taste bad.

I gulp the rest of the pint down, wincing as the liquid rushes over my tongue.

I flag the bartender, signalling that I want another. The man frowns. No doubt he’s appraising my level of drunkenness, and weighing the risks of giving me what I want. 

I mouth the word “water” to him, and he relaxes a little. He nods and hurries past to fulfil the order of someone else down the countertop. I smile to myself. I figure I can get in another three drinks, if it looks like I’m hydrating myself.

As I wait for my water, I look behind me. Every wall is covered with kitschy decorations or TV’s playing sports that I don’t care about. The tables are filled with people of all ages, drinking, eating, and laughing. I shake my head, livestock indeed, all gathered around thier communal feeding troughs. Not that I'm any better than them, I'm livestock too. I'm at least able to acknowledge what I am in the societal machine.

I hear a crack and turn my attention to the corner of the bar where a bunch of university students are playing Pool. They look as drunk as I am, but the pretty waitress keeps filling up their pitchers. A muscular one even kisses her on the lips.

I feel a churning inside my belly. I can’t tell if it’s the sour beer I just drank, or something else. It roils and gurgles. And I feel…bitter. Yeah, that’s what I’m feeling. Bitter. 

I think about going over to the one muscular student. I think about grabbing a pool cue and feigning interest in playing with them. I think about being arrogant and egging them on, so they’ll capitulate. I think about lining up my shot before spinning around and ramming the cue into Muscular’s gut. I think about smashing it over his head and driving the splinters into his throat. I think about –

“Hey, Buddy? Your water.”

I wheel around in my stool. The bartender sets down a whole pitcher of water with the sound of ice crackling inside. I didn’t ask for a pitcher, but I can’t just refuse it either. The roiling in my gut settles a bit and I cough. I look up and meet the bartenders’ eyes. He looks annoyed, but that changes into worry.

I quickly grab the plastic pitcher and fill my glass, thanking him while I do. I hear the bartender mutter under his breath as he moves to another customer.

I drink from the glass. Even as the water pours down my throat, I feel restless. The alcohol has instilled within me an electric thrum. I need to move, to dance, to sing…to fight! But I can hold off for now. Those losers at the Pool table aren’t worth it anyways.

My therapist believes I am a misanthrope, someone that hates humanity. I can see how she came to that conclusion. It’s not a secret that I dislike a lot of people. I can barely count on my hand the amount of people I enjoy being around. But…misanthrope? No. I wouldn’t call myself that.

She’s not a good therapist, if I’m being honest. But she is the only one left that will see me. I’ve come to accept that I frustrate people, just as people frustrate me. And that is exactly the issue.

You see I don’t hate humanity, rather I hate what humanity has become. Humanity withers with every generation. A Golden Age, to a Silver Age, to a Bronze Age, to an Iron Age, to now an Age of Iron Mixed With Clay. Progress is killing us, and at a rate faster than ever.

One hundred years ago, living conditions might not have been great, but at least it was living. You could live in a community and actually know people, with only a radio to tell you of the world outside your space. That, that was enough.

But TV, movies, computers, cellphones, magazines, cars, planes, rockets, nukes. It's poisoning us!

I see it in the eyes of every person I meet. I see the rot that they have accepted, and they're happy with it. Like…Like what kind of person can honestly look at the state of the world and think that these are the good times? I’d call them zombies, but even zombies at least want something in their state of being.

An hour later I leave the bar, drunker than I have been in a long time. It’s been snowing for the last few hours. Every surface is coated in a fine dusting of powdery flakes. I’d call it festive, if it wasn’t the dead of January.

I step out of the doorway and look up and down the main street. It's peaceful besides the occasional car. I look left and rest my gaze on the church that had been undergoing renovations for seven years. I look at the scaffolding and the tarps that stretch over it. Like skin over an emaciated animal.

A harsh gust of wind rips through the street. I wince from the cold and the tarps rustle and twist. I think for a moment how much a thin sheet can obscure so much. Who can say what evil lurks behind a mere eighth of an inch of plastic. And you would never know until it lashes out at you.

I smile and choose to walk in the direction opposite to the church. I know what happens behind walls like it, best I stay away from such places.

The snow gently anoints my head and shoulders. I pay it no mind. It’s cold, but not in an uncomfortable way. It reminds me of when I was eighteen years younger, when I was properly angry at the world. That flame has long since smouldered out, but the nostalgia makes the embers sputter inside me a little.

I hold onto that warmth. I reminisce about all those nights I spent stalking the streets looking for trouble. I think of the fights I started, the fights I lost, and the fights I narrowly won. 

My smile broadens, thinking back then. Oh, how I would have hated me now, but the contempt is mutual towards who I had been. Funny how that kind of thing works. 

My phone rings. I look at the screen. It’s Katie. I hesitate, but ultimately pick up.

“Hello?”

“Derrick. Do you still love me?”

A pointless question, but one meant to bait me. “Yes. What do you want?”

“Is your wife not entitled to some attention?”

“She would be, but you're not anymore. Now get to the chase.”

“Come home. The kids need you.”

“No, you need me. Don’t confuse things.”

“Listen to me, your boys need a father in their lives. Instead, you just get drunk every night. I bet you were just at the bar now.”

“So? They don’t want to be around me; we both remember what happened at Tom’s last birthday. You just want me to pay all your bills, while you watch TV. Well, I’m not your bloodbank anymore Katie! Get it through your fat head that I’m not giving you another dime.”

“You basta-“

I hang up the phone. Insufferable woman. I let the electric thrum inside me guide my movements. I don't know what I was thinking, marrying her. Every step of my life has been trouble. It’s been downhill ever since -

A car rushes past me and I stumble backwards in shock. Shit! I shake my head and frantically look around. I’m in the middle of a crosswalk and I see a pair of headlights coming towards me. I scramble toward the other side of the street moments before another car rushes past.

Holy shit! Now I know what it’s like to be a deer. I brush the snow off of my coat as I recenter myself. Underneath the sound of my labouring breath is the sound of rushing water. I… as I listen, I feel the sound drown out my thoughts. I feel drawn to it. I... I…

I regain awareness. I look around me and I…I don’t immediately know where I am. A thin layer of snow covers me. I’m sitting against something, and I hear…I hear again the sound of rushing water, but far louder than before. I pull myself up. I look around and it becomes clear where I am. I’m at the lake’s dam in the downtown park.

The rushing water is the water being pulled from the lake and into the river behind me. I walk towards the sound. I feel the thrum inside my body weaken. For the first time tonight, I don’t feel its power or the allure. That makes me curious, but also frightened. I feel hollow without its energizing warmth. 

I reach the railing and look over the edge. I don’t really see anything to be honest. I see black water like an abyss. A rushing, frothing, abyss.

The only way I know that it’s there, is the sound it makes and the tiny reflective glints from the streetlights. Otherwise, it’s like a black hole in a way. I know it's there by everything that surrounds it, but I can’t actually see it myself. And I feel pulled by it.

I lift one leg over the railing and hoist myself up until I’m straddling the cold metal. It's uncomfortable, but it feels right. It feels like I’m supposed to be doing this. Even if I don’t know why. 

I continue looking at the water. I look at it rush past. I look at the foam that gushes forth. I imagine myself dropping forward into that blackness. Would I just vanish if I went into it? or would I just be sucked in by the current and be bashed against the dam’s open slit? Only to be spat out as some broken body to be tossed around into the roiling river beyond. To then wash upon a stream bank kilometres away. To then be poked at with a stick as a police officer radios in “Hey chief, we found a body down by the creek”. Either of these imagined situations would be fine by me.

As I stare into the water, all these thoughts rush in my head. Just like the water down below me. But it’s as I stare, I notice something, something I hadn’t seen before. It looks like a face. I swing the other leg over the railing and firmly with both hands clasp onto the metal. 

I lean forward, squinting hard. As I get closer, I realize that it does look like a face. I see a nose. I see a smile. And I see two green eyes like foxfire. Glistening just above the surface. 

It sways back and forth, but it's never pulled by the water. It’s like it's suspended there. Like an old pirate with their feet tied to an anchor. I marvel at the face. It sloshes around, but the power of the water will never truly move it. It is a permanence amidst a chaotic flow.

I lean further forward, until I’m hanging over the water, held only in place by my grip. I want so desperately to drop into the water and deeply gaze into those foxfire eyes. To embrace the figure in the water. Who else could understand me? Here is a figure that stands firm against 

the tides of change. Yes, a kindred spirit indeed. I am so close; all I need to do is to let go.

But then I remember. I’ve been lured like this once before. Yes, yes! This is just another little one of those traps. The traps laid out for the dispossessed, the lonely, the misbegotten, or whatever adjective you might wish to apply. But it is still just a trap. And there is no salvation to be found with a noose. 

I pull myself up and back over the railing. And as soon as I deny the face in the water, it dips under the surface. The foxfire eyes… extinguishing. And once again, all I can see is black water and froth. Just that and nothing more.

I brush off the snow that had built up on me and scramble away from the dam, before I am lured again.

After a few peaceful minutes, I find myself walking down a residential street. Everything is empty. No cars, no people. Just me, the streetlights, and the falling snow.

Most of the homes are dark. Though the few that are lit, come from TV’s tuned to the 11 o'clock news. Everything is still. Peaceful. Serene. It's then I begin to feel the thrum again, and it warms my spirit.

As I walk, I notice an old man shovelling his driveway. He rhythmically bends down and then hoists the powder, like how a slave might feed a coal furnace. Shovel, hoist. Shovel, hoist. Fruitlessly labouring as more snow falls upon his back.

It's when my boot scuffs the sidewalk, that the man’s head lifts: slowly. And well, Hhe stares at me. And I feel a chill go down my spine. It isn’t the fact that he’s staring at me, plenty of people do. But it’s the way he’s staring at me. 

Normally, when they stare, they look at me like you might look at a bear in the wild. Nervous, with a healthy dose of respect. But, this man, this old man…

No. He’s, he’s staring at me like you would at someone who doesn’t belong. He’s looking at me as if silently asking, “How on earth did you end up here?”.

It’s the kind of look that makes you want to flee. To run, as fast as you can to get away from their line of sight. But that’s exactly what they want. What he wants, and I won’t give him the satisfaction.

But I pass by at a steady pace. He doesn’t do anything.

He just keeps on shovelling and staring. I keep walking. My shoulders rustle at how uncomfortable this all feels. But that’s all it is, isn’t it? Uncomfortable. And I can deal with “uncomfortable” just fine.

I continue, and I start to notice some things. Like, how many of the darkened windows have people standing at them…and they, well… I hadn’t seen them before now because of how dark things were with the glare of the streetlights. But as I look closely, I see more and more people standing at their windows. And they’re all…staring at me! Just like the old man. And now I really want to run. I don’t know how this is happening, but I know I need to run!

It's as if I’ve set them off, like a silent alarm, at my arrival. Like I’m an intruder, but it’s a public street. I can be here.

After a few minutes of this I turn off the street at the first intersection I arrive at. And when I do, a weight feels like it has been lifted off my shoulders. I no longer feel being seen. Being watched. Observed. Scrutinized.

And it's then I come across a park. There’s a small playground. It doesn’t look like much at first, but what catches my eye is a dark huddle next to the swing set. It takes my mind a moment to comprehend it in the darkness, but I gather them to be teenagers. And I find that strange…well not as strange as those “people” before, but strange in why they would be out here so late.

It’s easily now close to midnight at this point. What kind of parents would let their kids be out at this time? And then I get my answer indirectly from the subjects.

Between the teenagers, in the middle of the huddle, there is a flash of red and orange. And then just as quickly it vanishes, with nothing but a wispy trail of smoke to rise between them.

Ah, that’s right. I should have known better. Only the kinds of parents who’d let their kids out this late, are the parents who would let them be poisoned. 

It’s bad enough that they are always on their cellphones. Their Tv’s. Their video games. But no…. No! That's not enough, they have to find other ways to kill themselves, like with cigarettes or marijuana…or who knows what else!? Because what they have is boring.

It makes me sick. So, I watch them. And I feel sick doing only that. Imagining the poison as it fills their lungs. Grabbing hold inside and inserting itself into their blood streams. 

And they…they are choosing to do this! So young. So young and they already want to see themselves destroyed.

I might not be much better with my drinking, but at least I wasn’t a teenager when I enlisted for this. They had a chance…and they wasted it.

I want to, so badly, to just walk over there and smack the smoke out of their hands. Or at least scream some sense into them. They have so much to offer this world and they choose poison!?

I take a step forward, but then think better of it. I remind myself that this, what I plan to do, will not solve anything. They already made their choice. Poison has them and it is a tight vice.

Nothing I can say will change that or make it better. No, they would just yell back at me, or push me, or beat me. Curse me…Or worse they’d laugh at me. Tell me I’m an old geezer, tell me it's past my bedtime. Yeah, they’d probably get a good chuckle out of that. And anything I do or say, is something they have already heard to death. They have come to terms with it. Lost causes. And I don’t have time for lost causes. 

It’s then that I shake myself out of the tunnel vision and come aware of my surroundings again. It's then I see the teenagers are all looking at me. Looking at like the old man, or the people those in the dark windows.

No. Not them too. Not them too! Is this the Poison showing itself?

I look at them, but I can’t make out their faces. They’re just silhouettes. All I see is the glow cast by the cherry of the cigarette. It highlights the outlines of their faces, but it shows nothing of who they are. I see the angles of chins, noses, eyebrows, and cheeks. But ultimately faceless, like that of a mannequin. 

They just keep looking at me. Still and silent. I can’t take it. An old man looking at me funny is one thing. But these kids…if they ever are kids, or just a simulacrum of them, seeing me the same way. It’s too much.

I take a step back. Then another and another. They don’t move.

I then take that opportunity to run as fast and as hard as I can. I don’t even look back to see if they are following me because I don’t care! I just need to be away from this place. This cursed neighborhood.

I run and run. I turn down a random street, never missing a beat. I let myself be guided by the thrum not knowing where it will take me. I can’t be followed if I don’t know where I’m going.

I run past a house that has plastic deer on its lawn, just another simulacrum. 

I run past people on their porches. They don’t stare at me, but they do look at me. Funny right? Here I am a lunatic running down an empty street in the middle of the night, but the eyes of these strangers are comforting. They might wonder if they should call the police, but they’re gaze isn’t hostile. It's normal. This is all somehow normal now.

I laugh. But the laughter quickly dies in my throat.

I look around me again. Everywhere I look, I see them. I see them across the street. I see them in the cars. See them on their porches. See them in the houses…staring out the dark windows. 

Nothing like this has happened before. Normally it’s me that looks at people disdainfully. But now, suddenly, everyone is clued in.

Without an idea of what I should do I whip out my phone and frantically dial the number of my therapist. The phone rings. And rings. And rings. And–

“Hello? Derrick, is that you?”

“Y-yes. Yes, It's me. I, oh I’m so sorry, but I…I just don’t know what else I should do. Nothing makes sense to me, and It’s freaking me out.”

“Okay, okay. Just hold on. Tell me what is happening and we can work through this.”

“Well…I uh. This whole night has been very weird for me. I only had a few beers to drink, but since then I’ve been seeing a lot of things. Hearing a lot of things. There were others, um a person in the water, by the dam. They were looking up at me without moving, but that shouldn’t be possible. The rush of the water should have pulled them under. And now as I walk down the street, I see people. Or rather people see me.

People across the street, they’re looking at me. People in cars that drive past, they’re looking at me. People on their porches, or at their dark windows. Every person that I come across is staring at me and…and I’m freaking out.”

“Okay. Okay. I hear you Derek, but just take a moment to think about this. Do they look at you because you're looking at them? Or are they looking at you because you're behaving in a way that they find strange?”

“Well, that sounds like a real chicken and egg kind of situation, doesn’t it?”

I remind myself that my therapist is not a very good therapist.

“Well, I’m just trying to get a context for what might be causing this. I believe that you’re experiencing things as you see them. But you need to take a realistic perspective as well. Perhaps they’re reacting to you just as you’re reacting to them. Maybe you are just as much to blame as they are in your circumstances. 

I hang up the phone. I can’t trust this person. For all I know they’re a part of it. Yeah, that would make sense, wouldn’t it? 

As I walk, I see a person, one hundred metres in front of me. They wear jeans and a blue coat. The hood is drawn. Warm looking boots. They walk like an island, until I scrape my boots on the sidewalk salt. Their hooded heads snap up and our eyes meet. They meet for a long time.

I’m the first one to break eye contact. I see the figure has moved his left hand to his coat pocket. He’s holding a gun most likely. No that can’t be. People don’t openly carry firearms around here. Then he must be gripping a pocket knife. 

He’s going to stab me as we cross paths. Well, two can play at that game. Buddy. I reach into my own coat pocket. Mirroring his actions.

I look back to his eyes and see that he has bunched his eyebrows together. He likely sees what I’ve just done. The understanding, I assume, is mutual. 

As we get closer, footstep by footstep, his eyes turn to slits. This is it. This is going to happen. He’s going to stab. He’s going to stab me and if he does, I’ll fight back.

I don’t know what I’ll do when it happens, but I won’t go down lightly. 

We pass by.

Nothing happens.

I continue walking a few feet. Mostly running on instinct. But also, just the sheer, SHEER, disbelief that nothing happened. I turn around and the figure is still walking.

I let out a laboured breath. I pull my hand out of my pocket, and I see a…I see a bloody pocket knife. That…that wasn’t there before. What is going on? No, No, that can’t be. I snap my head up. The figure has collapsed into a snowbank. I see in the streetlight that a bloody splotch is growing out of the back of his coat. He’s not moving. Oh…oh god he’s not moving. 

I throw the knife to the ground, and I run. I feel the world around me collapsing. Nothing is everything and everything is nothing. The world, reality, has finally turned on me. The familiar images of houses, streetlights, and parked cars all blur into a slurry of chaos. 

I’m not even sure if I’m running anymore, or my mind only thinks that is.

I think about all the people in my life that I’ve grown to despise for one reason or another. All the anger and hatred I direct towards people that don’t know me. I think about how it's all just a feedback loop towards my destruction.

And I want it all to stop.

I wake up. And I’m…I’m in front of a building. It's three stories tall with yellow brick, sitting on a street corner. A half foot of snow blankets the street. A bright streetlight hangs overhead and bathes me in its sodium glow. It's so quiet, muffled by the snow. I imagine this is what it would feel like to be in a snow globe.

My attention returns to the building. The most curious aspect of it is the singular vertical sign that rests on its corner edge. It reads, Shenanigans. Shenanigans! Shen-an-i-gans, what a word! What a perfect way to describe this entire night.

I feel the Thrum within me hasten. The blood within me urges me forward. I…I must go ahead. I’ve come this far, so I’ll see it through. I pull myself to my feet and I go to the door under the sign. The Shenanigans sign. I try the handle, but it’s locked. Of course, it's locked. Of Course, It's Locked! But the thrum in my body disagrees. So, I take a step back, well more like fifteen.

When I’m far enough away I level my eyes to the door, and charge at it with everything in my body. I smash into the door, and I hear a crack. I don’t know if it came from my shoulder or the door frame. But I am undeterred.

I go back to my original position and charge it again. And again. And again, and again…until I manage to smash through the door. My entire shoulder blade is a throbbing wreck as every movement sends a spam of pain through my body. But The Thrum…The Thrum drowns it out!

I stumble into the building; it appears to be in the process of renovations. The walls lack any drywall, and the flooring is missing in places, even the ventilation ducts are exposed. In the corner of one room there’s a desk with paperwork on it.

I walk around the space. I feel like a Geiger counter, trying to locate the spot where the Thrum wants me to move to. And then I find it. There is a staircase to the next level. I climb the steps. One by one. Flight by flight. Level by level. Until I am on the third floor. And it is dark. Darker than the black water from before. This is a darkness that not even light would be able to penetrate. I step forward and I hear from the darkness in front of me, creaking floorboards. There is something else here with me. I call out to it, but I get no response. I take another step, and then another. I am now fully in the darkness.

I can see nothing, but I hear a voice call out of the darkness. It says “What. Are. You?”

And…I don’t know how to respond. Normally, when someone asks a question like that it's “Who are you?”. But “What Are You” is a whole nother type of question.

I consider responding with “Human”, or “Man”…Or even perhaps “Misanthrope”. But, No, those are all surface level responses. Answering with those feel like I’m filling out government paperwork. Putting myself in a box.

I can tell that whatever is asking the question is looking for something more. Something deeper than the skin, that gets to the heart of who I am. But well…what am I? How do I see myself?

Again, the voice rings out “WHAT ARE YOU!?” and trusting what my gut tells me, I give it what it wants. An honest answer. The most I can muster on the spot. 

Confidently I declare, “I am a lion forced to live among sheep.”

And I am met with a most cacophonous laughter. It laughs for a good while and then suddenly ceases. With the voice saying, “A lion? No, all I can smell is the stench of apathy and loathing. But you’ll do. Though you're not ripe enough yet for me.”

I’m not sure what to do. I take a step back and the floorboards creak. My instincts begin to fire on all cylinders, but I’m unsure why. It’s a moment later I understand, as in the darkness I hear the smack of bare feet on wood…. running toward me! I cry out in fear and throw myself to the side, as I hear a moment later something slams into the wall that had been behind me.

I scurry in random directions, always moments before a collision with whatever is running at me. This continues for what seems to be an endless length of time, until I feel my hand grasping a doorknob. I turn it and thrust the door open. It's dark, but a much brighter, or rather a more normal kind of darkness. I run through and find myself on a stairwell. 

I run down the stairs. Step by step. Flight by flight. Level by level. I run down what seems to be several dozen flights of stairs in a three-story building. I push away the thoughts that try to rationalize this impossibility, there isn’t time for that now. 

I hear a noise, I spare a glance up and see a shadowy figure descend in the middle gap of the stairs, like it's floating.

Until suddenly, I am once again on the main floor of the Shenanigans building. 

I take a second to centre myself. As I take a step forward, I hear a creek. I turn to my left and the shadow drops down from the ceiling on one arm like it’s a bungee cord. And then it falls to the floor with a soft plop.

I can get a better look at my attacker. It stands a good 11 feet tall. And its body is entirely featureless. The Thrum in my body tells me to go to it. To embrace him and become him. But another part of me rejects that. That part of me runs.

I run to the door and turn the knob. It sticks. Damn it! I run to a window, and it won’t budge either.

I turn around and see the shadow slowly walking towards me, like an inevitability. With my heart in my throat, I try every method of escape available to me, but for nothing. The only solace I find is a janitor closet. I rush in and throw myself onto the cleaning supplies.

I pull out my phone and dial my ex-wife without even thinking. The phone rings for only a moment.

“Derrick? Ugh...what time is it?”

“Katie I…I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Uh, where is this coming from all of a sudden.”

“I’ve had a bad night, let's leave it at that. And I want to make peace. I’m tired of fighting you and lashing out when you don’t deserve it…”

“Derrick.”

“I want to see the kids. I want to hug them so badly.”

“(sigh) call me in the morning, and if you are being serious about this, we can talk then.”

“Okay.”

I hang up the phone. I feel a bubbly warmth inside, I haven't felt in a long while. I pull the phone away from my face and that warmth immediately chills. In my hand is not my phone, but a scrub brush.

I scream and throw the brush to the floor. I claw at my face as I scramble to understand what is happening to me. But before I can do anything, a gentle knock raps on the closet door. 

“WHAT ARE YOU?”

I bite on my fist to resist answering, but still, I respond as if compelled. “I am forsaken”.

A hideous laughter cascades behind the thin wooden door. I shrink into the corner of the closet amongst the brooms and mops, hoping in vain it will conceal me. There is a deep groaning from the wood and a moment later the door is torn from the frame.

Standing in the door is the shadow, and its posture suggests a disturbing sense of satisfaction. If I could see its face, I know I would see it smiling ear to ear.

“You’re almost juicy enough,” the shadow says, “But you need to marinate a little while longer. Perhaps a few more cycles and you’ll be ripe.”

The shadow lunges for me. I feel an icy grip around my throat and skull. I thrash and struggle against the monster. I throw my fist -

I’m in the bar, with my fist stretched upwards. I quickly pull it down and look around in shock. Everything was how it had been earlier tonight. In front of me on the counter is a beer. 

Hesitantly, I grab it and take a drink. As the sour “grapefruit flavoured” beer flows into my gut I remember what I said at the start of all of this. I slowly set the glass down and wipe the foam from my mouth. I look into the glass distantly and repeat the words, which suddenly ring with a new meaning.

“We’re all livestock,” I say to myself, but no one around me seems to hear what I said. “Even if we deny it.”