moonbird
10-14-2011, 08:12 PM
While the others wandered aimlessly around the cell, Lyra sat quietly in a corner, a thoughtful expression on her face. Memories of the time before her Weaning played on the backs of her eyelids like a silent movie. Every so often she would smile, remembering some pleasant sensation of her past, the sweet, milky smell of her mother, the calming way the darkness wrapped around their bodies like a blanket. The others chattered around her like colorless parrots, but Lyra didn’t seem to notice.
Nearby sat a girl who happened to be the exact opposite of quiet, introspective Lyra, and her name was Scribbles. She lay sprawled out on her back with her feet pressed against the wall, using a saliva-moistened finger to carefully trace the outlines of her toes onto the dusty brick. Her tangled blonde locks were spread out on the dirt floor in a fan around her head, wavy golden hair that might have been quite pretty if not for its matted condition. Unlike Lyra, Scribbles had never been able to recall those sweet, fuzzy memories from before her Weaning. Instead of reminiscing silently, she was deep in concentration with her doodle on the wall. She drew zigzag lines shooting from each toe of her silhouette foot, letting out a peal of laughter at her own silly drawing. A few girls glanced her way, but Scribbles didn’t bother to care.
There were fifty or so other girls in the small concrete-walled cell, and each was almost completely identical to the rest. Their faces were pale and dirty and featureless, their hair colors indistinguishable shades of dingy taupe. Their gaunt figures were completely exposed, and from all angles jutted jagged rip cages and bony knees. Most of them had blank expressions as they prattled on and on and on, drowning out the silence.
From above their heads there came a deep, slow rumbling. Any other sound of its low volume would have been smothered by the constant chatter of their bird-like voices. But the girls' ears had become finely-tuned to recognize this particular pitch of bass vibrations, and to them it meant only one thing: Food.
In half a second, there was not a single girl still squatting on the ground. There was a stampede as everyone pushed in the same direction. Lyra and Scribbles, who had been sitting close to the trough, were among the first to reach it, and had managed to reserved very good spots for themselves, right by the faucet. Fifty pairs of skeletal hands gripped the metal rim of the trough tightly, tense with anticipation. Their faces were grave and focused.
The rumbling was growing steadily louder, and the big pipes running down the wall began to shake and clatter. Not a word was spoken as everyone listened to the familiar sound, many with heads cocked slightly, like wolves listening for prey.
Abruptly, the rumbling stopped.
There was a moment of complete silence and stillness as everyone stared wide-eyed at the faucet. It seemed to hesitate, but then, finally, it released its load.
There was a wet splat as the first heavy glob hit the metal bottom of the trough. It was quickly followed by another, and then the faucet began vomiting up its payload. The huge trough was quickly filled with sticky, greenish-brown goo.
The girls let out a shrill, feral cry of glee and dug in. They sunk their hands into the trough and began shoveling out heaping handfuls of chunky slop. In seconds their faces were coated in slime from their noses to their chins, dripping off in sticky globs.
The cell was filled with the sort of grunts, snorts, and sighs that could only be made by a mob of gluttonous animals greedily engorging themselves. Lyra snatched a chunk of meat, swallowed it whole, choked on it for a moment or two, managed to work it down her throat, and then reached for another. But Scribbles got to the meat first, snatching it up and attempting to shove it down her throat. Lyra screamed with hysterical fury and lunged for the handful of slimy muck halfway into the other girl’s mouth. For a few moments the two battled ferociously over the meat, bawling like screech owls and attempting to scratch at each other's faces with short-bitten fingernails. Finally it split in half, and each girl crammed her share into her mouth and returned to digging through the mucus-like slime in the trough.
As they gorged themselves in a lake of revolting slop, their faces stretched taut with delirious, ecstatic smiles, there was little difference between the human girls and a sty of pigs, blindly glutting themselves, blissfully unaware they were slowly sealing their own fates a little more tightly with every bite.
And the strange thing was, no one felt the least bit hungry.
Nearby sat a girl who happened to be the exact opposite of quiet, introspective Lyra, and her name was Scribbles. She lay sprawled out on her back with her feet pressed against the wall, using a saliva-moistened finger to carefully trace the outlines of her toes onto the dusty brick. Her tangled blonde locks were spread out on the dirt floor in a fan around her head, wavy golden hair that might have been quite pretty if not for its matted condition. Unlike Lyra, Scribbles had never been able to recall those sweet, fuzzy memories from before her Weaning. Instead of reminiscing silently, she was deep in concentration with her doodle on the wall. She drew zigzag lines shooting from each toe of her silhouette foot, letting out a peal of laughter at her own silly drawing. A few girls glanced her way, but Scribbles didn’t bother to care.
There were fifty or so other girls in the small concrete-walled cell, and each was almost completely identical to the rest. Their faces were pale and dirty and featureless, their hair colors indistinguishable shades of dingy taupe. Their gaunt figures were completely exposed, and from all angles jutted jagged rip cages and bony knees. Most of them had blank expressions as they prattled on and on and on, drowning out the silence.
From above their heads there came a deep, slow rumbling. Any other sound of its low volume would have been smothered by the constant chatter of their bird-like voices. But the girls' ears had become finely-tuned to recognize this particular pitch of bass vibrations, and to them it meant only one thing: Food.
In half a second, there was not a single girl still squatting on the ground. There was a stampede as everyone pushed in the same direction. Lyra and Scribbles, who had been sitting close to the trough, were among the first to reach it, and had managed to reserved very good spots for themselves, right by the faucet. Fifty pairs of skeletal hands gripped the metal rim of the trough tightly, tense with anticipation. Their faces were grave and focused.
The rumbling was growing steadily louder, and the big pipes running down the wall began to shake and clatter. Not a word was spoken as everyone listened to the familiar sound, many with heads cocked slightly, like wolves listening for prey.
Abruptly, the rumbling stopped.
There was a moment of complete silence and stillness as everyone stared wide-eyed at the faucet. It seemed to hesitate, but then, finally, it released its load.
There was a wet splat as the first heavy glob hit the metal bottom of the trough. It was quickly followed by another, and then the faucet began vomiting up its payload. The huge trough was quickly filled with sticky, greenish-brown goo.
The girls let out a shrill, feral cry of glee and dug in. They sunk their hands into the trough and began shoveling out heaping handfuls of chunky slop. In seconds their faces were coated in slime from their noses to their chins, dripping off in sticky globs.
The cell was filled with the sort of grunts, snorts, and sighs that could only be made by a mob of gluttonous animals greedily engorging themselves. Lyra snatched a chunk of meat, swallowed it whole, choked on it for a moment or two, managed to work it down her throat, and then reached for another. But Scribbles got to the meat first, snatching it up and attempting to shove it down her throat. Lyra screamed with hysterical fury and lunged for the handful of slimy muck halfway into the other girl’s mouth. For a few moments the two battled ferociously over the meat, bawling like screech owls and attempting to scratch at each other's faces with short-bitten fingernails. Finally it split in half, and each girl crammed her share into her mouth and returned to digging through the mucus-like slime in the trough.
As they gorged themselves in a lake of revolting slop, their faces stretched taut with delirious, ecstatic smiles, there was little difference between the human girls and a sty of pigs, blindly glutting themselves, blissfully unaware they were slowly sealing their own fates a little more tightly with every bite.
And the strange thing was, no one felt the least bit hungry.