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There were two men in here once, still there are two beds. But just me, I remain in this room. Chop. Chop. Chop. I hear from the big room behind me. Slice. Slice. Slice. I know why they took him, a lot of people don't know, but I know. Each chop is a gunshot. Each slice is a knife. I ask the nurses, they tell me they're doing laundry. There is not enough laundry. There are not enough people here for that. But they insist, so I keep silent.

I'm pacing back and forth, back and forth, and so on, when the nurse walks in. She gives me steak and potatoes, and smiles, and pats me on the head. She is very nice, but lies to me. Tells me no, this is just a hospital Bobby, but it's not a hospital, and I am not a child. I eat steak with my fingers. It is rare. Almost blue.

Machines move behind me, slice, chop, grind, how do they peel the skin off? I take my pills very well. The nurses pat me on the back and praise me for my obedience. I'm like a dog. Pet and praised and given treats for my willful ignorance and drugged state. When will they take me to the vet to put me down? I wonder. They take them at random. I feel so slow, like I'm moving underwater and sinking. I look around at the other meat men, they all look so happy. I cry. The nurses comb my hair with fingers. I become angry but can not move.

***

The door opens and lets a flood of light into the dark entryway. It's midday, and this is odd. Robert steps inside, carefully. His steps, those which were supposed to be soft and padded, gave him away instantly. He heard the clack, clack, of his first steps forward and looked down at his boots. He stopped moving, going still and rigid, and looking in every direction. He waited, and waited, and waited until they popped up. A handsome, middle-aged man with a beard, and a young girl, still in her pajamas.

Robert picked the girl up, planting a wet kiss on her forehead, ignoring the loud, indignant, "Ew!" Then he planted a less wet kiss on the lips of the man. Robert's hands slid into his husband's, their fingers intertwining by instinct. "You really scared me that time," Robert said.

***

We all file back into our cages, there are no chains, but we shuffle anyway. I become trapped in my room, but things are different this evening. The nurse walks in. Hello, she says, I respond in kind. She gives me new medicine. She says this will cure your tendencies that got you here, it will make you feel so much better, Bobby. I swallow because I am a dog.

That night, I am restless and covered in a sheen of sweat. My sheets and mattress soak through, it is not particularly hot in my room, but I am so warm, I am in pain as well. My back aches and my legs feel stretched. I am moaning and groaning, and no sleep comes for me. I want to scream, but I feel like if I were to do it then my tongue and all my teeth would fall out of my mouth and I do not want to eat the slop they give to the disabled, young, and old. I hate the steak because I know what it is, but I can not eat the slop.

I roll around in my bed, looking and searching for some comfortable position so that I may sleep, but I never find it and sleep never comes. I am subjected to torture and this is it. Sleep deprivation is torture. This I know, I know it from when I was in the war, I know the war crimes, I know the torture, why I am being prepared like meat?

My tongue and teeth be damned, I start to scream. I tear my throat raw. I notice how bad it hurts first, and then I see the small chunks of flesh and specks of blood pattering down like rain on my white padded walls and floor. I feel my own anguish tearing me apart as I scream my rough and pained scream. My molar falls out, and then I begin to choke. I cough and pound my stomach with my fist until my incisor shoots out from my airway. My canine and then my molar all fall to the ground, clinking against each other. They do not blend in with the white floor because my mouth is flooded with blood, and they are now all dyed pink.

Nurses run in once again with feigned looks of worry on their faces as they try to calm me down and more medicine is forced down my throat. I feel so sleepy, but my pain keeps me sharp. They restrain me so tight and put me where my screams can not be heard. But I can still hear things, I can still hear the chopping and then grinding. They do this to me on purpose.

***

Robert was drafted by the U.S. Army shortly after his daughter's 5th birthday. The letter shook in his hands as he held it for his husband to read. He cried that night, heaving sobs into his husband's chest. But he did go.

It was a grueling few months before he went out to war, and he fought well. He saw his brothers thrown to the ground by bullets, their heads exploding and showering Robert with gore.

He was paranoid towards the end, clutching onto the men who were with him for strength as he whipped around and around, looking for any sort of trap or ambush.

He went into a town once and was welcomed by the residents, but he was still paranoid. Looking behind him constantly. In that town, he bought a small angel statue for his daughter, a souvenir. He hoped it would make the whole thing lighter for her. Small children cheered at him as he walked by, thanking him in different languages. He patted them on the heads and smiled back. An older woman gave him a cigarette, and he thanked her profusely in her language and lit one for her before lighting his own.

As they left that town, he thought he saw something in the trees, and when he cried ambush again, a small boy with a hole in his chest came tumbling from the sky. Robert became the man who sent a child to his death, and the boy who cried wolf.

He was sent out on patrol with three other men, towards the end of his time, and as they walked, something felt off. Robert tried to tell his comrades, tried to let everyone know that something was wrong, but nobody listened. They mentioned the boy and told Robert to be quiet.

From far away, a crack, and Robert's cheek was split open. Blood covered his face as he reached for his rifle and returned fire. The three men with him did the same. One of them was shot from afar, his head erupting like a geyser, leaving his body standing for a moment while blood shot out of his now exposed neck.

One of them turned, heard footsteps and whipped around, only to be greeted by a man with a knife. His throat was slit, red pumping out of him for every slowing heartbeat as the last man's chest was split by the knife. Robert stood against the shooter from far away and the man with the knife, all alone, and somehow he survived.

There was a moment where he blacked out, where all senses disappeared, and when he came back, he was kneeling on the man with the knife. The man's face was caved in, his eyeball bulging out, hanging by just a thread on the side of his face. The man in the trees was dragged out to where Robert's patrol was, torn apart, with bits and pieces of the gun he used shoved through his body. Rifle parts pushed through flesh.

Robert breathed heavily. He stumbled back, and was praised. They praised his ability to fight, to get out of such a bad situation, but all he could see was the blood that covered his eyes, the blood of his men. When he cried, the red was not washed from his vision. So he instead became more of a fighter. And he killed many more men.

The war ended shortly after this, and Robert returned a changed man.

***

My limbs hurt and so do all my joints. There is violence inside me, struggling to escape, pushing through my skin. I scream and seize, but I can not hear myself. My head is filled with a metallic grinding that shakes my bones as they snap and move inside me, my body floats freely in my skin.

There is no bed in this room, there is nothing but padding, it is soft and grey. They make it impossible to hurt myself in here, but I feel I need to, I feel that nothing I could do would hurt me more than what they have done. I begged to nothing for relief and got none. When my limbs began to snap, shooting into a sharp, backwards angle, the sharp end of my bones pushing through my flesh, I began to cry. The nurses come in and they give me pills. They force my mouth open and shove the pills down my throat with their fingers. I can feel them going down my throat, forcing it down into my stomach. They leave me gagging, with snot running out of my nose and my body streaked with tears, sweat, and blood.

I thought the pills would make me sleep, that I would wake up as something not me, but they didn't. The stopped the pain but I stayed awake. My limbs continued to shoot at strange angles that should've sent shocks of unbearable pain through my whole body. Instead, I felt nothing but a thud, as if someone lightly tapped my elbow. When I looked at my elbow, it was split open.

I crawl towards the door, my legs, moving on their own in random shakes, dragging behind me, my arms shaking under my weight, my bones sliding up and out of my arms so much that I have to stop every few feet to slide them back inside. They go back inside with ease. I have to prop them up against the other halves, radius against radius, ulna against ulna, before eventually they slip away from each other with a snap, sending chips of bone flying, and I slowly slide down, more and more towards the ground.

Eventually, my knees invert. And it makes crawling so much easier. I turn around and drag myself with my legs instead, and lift myself up when I reach the door. My shaking hand grasps and turns the doorknob, I push the door open and look into the empty institution. No nurses walk the halls, all the bedroom doors are closed and locked, I move slowly, wobbling like a newborn deer as I begin to walk through empty rooms that are normally filled with people.

***

The stone angel sat heavy in his breast pocket. His daughter clung to him and his husband looked so relieved. But he sat there with a tension coursing through him, like he was being crushed. He bounced his leg up and down rapidly and was relieved when his daughter was sent to bed.

He undressed to shower, and took the angel out of his pocket. He looked over it, moving his finger over every carved curve in the stone. He turned it around, and on the back of the head, right in the center, was a drop of blood. Like she had been targeted by a sniper.

The stone shattered on the ground and Robert cleaned it up. He showered fast and crawled into his bed for the first time in eternities. His husband kissed him on the forehead and curled into him, while Robert laid flat. The sleep was deep.

When he explained to his daughter that he could not bring anything back, she understood. She had grown up enough that, in the time passed, she had figured out what Robert was doing overseas. But not enough that she knew he was a killer. She thought both her father's heroes, but only one was.

Robert was alone that day when three men broke into the house, enemy combatants that had followed him home. They knew how much of a threat he was, and so they followed him in order to take him out.

Robert crouched around the kitchen counter, his gun in his hand as they piled in. He couldn't see them, but he knew they were there, he could hear their footsteps as they searched. When he spotted the first one, he let off a shot, then another, then another, until all three men were down.

His husband came home to find Robert in the fetal position, clutching a rifle, and surrounded by broken glass and ceramics.

***

I watch my bones bind to each other. My arms still bend in a way I hate, especially now that they are backwards, but they work. I am walking on all fours, my stomach to the sky, my head upside down but facing forward. My elbows and knees bend so it is easiest to walk this way. I am less wobbly now.

My hands and feet click on the tile floors as I move through the institute I have been trapped in. I move through the cafeteria, finding nobody, then towards the staff only area. I feel my guts shifting inside me, everything following gravity, turning upside down to match how I walk.

I follow the sounds of machinery, chop chop chop like gunfire, it is so close. I follow it until I reach a door, which I push in, disregarding the doorknob, and find four washing machines and four dryers running simultaneously. I reach my backwards hand up and punch them off. I expect a sort of silence, a final relief of my head before I weep due to my insanity. But instead, instead I hear the whirring still, ever present, that makes my ears bleed. I can hear the crunching of the bones of my fellow men, the meat men that surround me go inside the machine without a sound, but I hear the wet crunches of their transformation.

I walk, slowly, straining to see upside down. The floors and walls being inverted threw off my sense of direction. So, I turn my head to the side, and I keep turning. I turn and turn until my vision is right side up. And my exploration continues with ease.

The halls of the institution are a labyrinth of labs and utility rooms, places to test our blood, places to store our pills, places full of green grass, and places to talk to the head doctors. I take time in the grass room while I pass. I lay in it, letting the rest revitalize me before my pilgrimage out of this evil place begins again.

I follow the machinery even as it gets further away. Every time I reach it, it slips past, it goes farther and farther out into the maze. But I still walk towards it. I know I am close when I hear strange, guttural noises. Noises of pain mixing with metal.

I finally reach the door. I finally reach where I need to be, where all the proof of what I have said to all the meat men, all the nurses, rests. The place where I look and see that I am not wrong, I am not crazy, I am here for malicious and cruel reasons. I am here to be eaten by hungry masses with no knowledge of what beef is. I open the door, I kick it open and, with a bang and a rattle, the door stops, and I peer in at the meat grinders, the automated knives that slice slice slice, and the conveyor belts that carry cow after cow into their doom. I collapse to the ground at the realization of how wrong I am. I feel the whole building crumbling around me and forcing me to die looking at my mistake. Cows. Not men. Cows. Not men. Their moos sound like the screams of the damned, of the ones who haunt me in my waking thoughts.

***

"I'm so sorry," the husband whispered into Robert's ear as he awoke to knocking at the door. Robert had heard him, but did not comprehend the words in his barely waking state. He got up and walked downstairs. The knocking continued and when he answered, he saw two men, police officers.

Robert looked behind him, his face crumbling, and saw his husband. He looked back but could not meet Robert's eyes. Their daughter was still asleep. "You've been scaring me," said the husband, "You've been scaring me so bad."

The officers took Robert away, and they put him in the institution.

***

I try to bellow out a scream but all that escapes is a deep and sorrowful moo. The cattle moo back. I must leave this place, I think to myself, so I reluctantly turn and walk. I do not know where the exit is, but I will know it when I see it, which will be soon.

As I move through the halls, getting lost further and further, I finally notice how long my hands have sounded like a dog walking on a hard floor. Hooves. I have hooves. And my strong arms and legs are covered with short, course fur. My eyes are those of prey, because I am meat, I have always known that I am meat, and now I am also cattle. They want to slaughter me with the rest.

I hear more clicking on the tile. At first, I think that it is another meat man, transformed and looking to leave. But I look behind me and see the nurse. She seems surprised to see me and greets me with a smile. Oh Bobby, she says, why are you out here? She says, you must go back to the room, she says. She pats me on the head again and I headbutt her.

I hear cracks in her stomach, and she looks at me hurt. Bobby, what are you doing Bobby? I will get you pills, Bobby, you need your pills. I headbutt her again and again until she is on the ground. She is weeping for my forgiveness of her sins now. She wants to call other nurses and feed me more pills, so I place a hand over her mouth to silence her and, with a crunch, her face caves in. I keep stepping on her until she is pulp.

***

A long time ago, Robert held his baby in a rocking chair, balancing her as he read a book. His husband sat across the room. They met eyes. They fell so deeply in love every time that happened. Chop chop chop and they all die. Robert sits in a padded room and cries while his roommate walks back and forth and back and forth and tells Robert how the nurses will kill them both. And then Robert is alone.

***

I run, frantic, my hooves click-clacking against the tile, leaving wet splotches of red as I move. I feel fear even though I know it was deserved, even though I know she was an evil, dirty liar. The nurse was killing me. Is killing me. Fed me the pills, and now she is dead, but I am alive, and I am escaping. I will find my husband and he will help me. I see my daughter. I will feel her embrace.

I see the door, the escape, and it is cracked open. Metal and huge, I see the light of the outside, the darkness that contrasts the florescence of the institute. I headbutt the door and rush through it, it slams behind me, and I am free. I feel the cold rush of wind in my hide and I breathe a sigh of relief. I take a step forward, and lights flick on.

Dead torsos, peeled and shaved of fat, hang from metal hooks coming down from the ceiling. The floor is covered in frost, and the cold bounces off the metal walls and pierces me.

I move back towards the door and headbutt it, but it does not move. I headbutt again, and again, and again, but there is no result. I try to hook my hooves against the handle, but I cannot get a good grip on it, and every time the handle is pushed down, the door doesn't budge. Because I cannot pull it towards me.

My hooves scrape against the metal for hours, frantic and panicked and getting slower and slower as I tire. The fans circulate the air around me and into me. Scrape, scrape, scrape, huff, huff, huff. I labor to escape, but my desperation yields no results.

Then, something changes. My heart starts to slow, thumping less and less, and despite the frost covering my lower half as I lay down, and the fans shooting daggers of wind into my skin, I start to feel so warm. Like a smoothing balm has been massaged over my body.

The frost cushions me, and as my final scrape against the door, my last attempt to leave, fades, I rest my head on the soft, white, pillowy cloud. My thoughts and vision become muddled. Sirens sound in my head, telling me to sleep. I have been so tired for so long, I have been so scared, and they tell me the rest will be fretless. I think that maybe help will come. Maybe I should continue, I could free all the meat men before the nurses slaughtered them next, like I knew they would. Meat men transforming like I had, and the nurses leading them to their deaths. For a second, this is all I see, before it fades. They will come for them, I know, but I am so tired and all I want to do is sleep.

***

The little house stands, solitary, atop a hill. Made of brick and overlooking a winding neighborhood, nobody knows of the sorrow inside. A small girl and an empty man walk endlessly through rooms that were full of life. The man grooms his red beard and combs his hair before he braids the hair of the girl and drives her to school. He works, barely enough to afford to live, and then picks her up. Little words are spoken between them, but the ones that they do say are soft and kind. Little blessings that come in the form of, "I love you." Small embraces, hands held in passing. Reminders that they still exist.

It had been a month since they had gotten the call that, somehow, Robert had killed himself in the psychiatric hospital. Thomas held his daughter while they both wept for days. But they had to remain in motion. So school and work continued after a short break. Thomas went through life without his daughter like a ghost, only coming to life a little bit when she was in his sights. He had been wrenched out of himself.

Their daughter drew at the kitchen table, her face almost pressed into the page as she scratched with her pencil. Over and over and over. The washing machine ran in another room, something heavy in a pocket thudding against the metal. Thomas stood over the stove, stirring the contents of a frying pan with a wooden spoon. He put in macaroni noodles and tomato paste, a splash of broth, and plated the hamburger helper. They ate in silence, shoveling mouthfuls. It had been a long day, so they were both very hungry, and scarfed down the ground beef, without leaving much time to chew.

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