The prison bars are made of steel. Impossible to break.
I will push my snout fiercely against them, I will use all my strength.
To get out.
To see and experience what I have never seen and what I have never experienced.
In my short life. My non-existent life.
I will see and experience all those things that you take for granted.
The sun, the light, the quietude.
The earth, the grass, the trees.
The feeling of having space. Of the smell of fresh air. The feeling of being able to lie on the earth.
I will strike the bars of the cage. No point. Only time lost in vain. The cage is made of iron. They have made sure I will not escape.
But what they did not bother to secure is my life. My life, that I now see escaping just before I reach the slaughter.
My life, that I am losing because of the illness I caught from my dead sister.
My life, that is fading away due to the infection that spreads from my wounds.
My life, that elopes along with my mind, making me move repeatedly in the same way, chew my limbs, bite my mum – as she is biting me.
Don’t worry about me. You will never meet me. My dirt and my misery will not cause your loathing.
I will not make you sad because of my depressing appearance, my empty life, my pain.
I will arrive to you wrapped in a plastic bag from the super-market, sliced or cut in pieces.
You will not understand a thing. Unless my dead members are still fresh, unless my death is recent, unless my mumbled cries are still reaching my killers’ ears before they soak them in their night drinks.
I was born to be killed. To be killed at the age that would be most appropriate for your taste, for your pleasure. To be killed at the proper moment, to accompany the best pizza or the most delicious toast sandwich.
The photo is property of Jo-Anne McArthur, for the project We Animals.
The pigs died long ago.
Translation from Greek: Ariadne Gergeraki