What is the definition of murder? To kill someone, or something?
I stared out at the coming dawn, watching the sun rise in entity's grasp. Feeling its rays spread into my rugged body. All the while hearing the waves pushing against the shore.
And with the sun casting shadows over my body I saw a seagull flying through my view, then swiftly diving to snap a fish in its shiny beak. I looked upon the fish, clasped in the gulls jaw, its cold body limp, the life already sucked from its heart.
Uncontrollably I felt tears falling down my powdered face. The life of the fish fell into me, enveloping my heart, tearing my soul.
The gull swallowed the fish in a gulp, bearing no mind to the life it had taken.
Around me life had started to come alive, people slowly came to my vision, birds again sung their songs of praise, fish swam unknowingly in the sea, maybe being the next victim of the gulls.
And I watched it all happen, the people, the birds, the fish.
Near me a person sat, breakfast laden in hand. I smelt the bacon, not needing to turn and see it covered on his food.
The smell collapsed into my lungs. I saw the bacon, thinly sliced, fat dripping. Then the meat, slaughtered, hanging on the bone. And then the pig, standing, snout dunked in a trough of slop, fattening for the sandwich he would finish on.
The images revolved in my head, playing again and again, always ending with the smell of bacon wafting to my nose.
The man near me had gone but the stench remained.
I walked home slowly, seeming to see the death of meat in every corner. Each smell filling into my nose, dizzying my mind. I walked past the chicken shop where I would stop for lunch and saw the cooked chickens resting behind the glass. Aiming to entice the passerby but throwing one away.
I crossed the road to leave the blowing stink and continued on my way, dawdling when I knew a meat shop was around the corner.
It took me twice as long to get home but it didn't matter, my non-incessant day was one which lived an unemployed life.
A headache slowly formed in my head as the day progressed. My mind kept flicking back to the meat which passed through the world everyday and I found myself lying in bed, reliving the smell of the bacon and the slaughtered cows hanging in rows. I tried to find myself thinking about lilies in a field or the comfort of a friend. But my mind kept going to the meat I had eaten every day.
I heard the lock click in the door and the scrape it pushed against the floorboards. Keys clanked onto the table and feet paced across the floor. Something heavy smashed onto the kitchen table and a head slowly appeared round the door.
"How was your day?" David asked.
"Fine," the words emitted from my mouth, stained with the tortures of the day.
"Good, I brought some dinner home, I'll get it ready," he left and I was there, laying, turning over the day in my head.
The door rested ajar and the smell quickly wafted to my scent. I swallowed it, engulfed in it, I choked on it.
I rose quickly and paced to the kitchen. Sitting there on a shiny plate sat a chicken. Its skin was brown and rough. Inside, I knew, it would be light and moist. The smell was to strong.
I rushed to the bathroom and threw up. Ridding myself of the food I hadn't eaten.
Then David was there, rubbing my back as I spewed into the toilet.
When I was done, I wiped my mouth and went back to the kitchen. The chicken still lay on the table, growing cold.
With a swift movement I picked it up and chucked it in the bin, hearing the satisfying clunk it made on the bottom.
With that I went back to my room and returned to the cool sheets of my bed, preparing myself for the coming questions. But I didn't care what David thought of me, nor what I thought of him. For from now on I knew the answer. The definition of murder is not to kill just someone, but to kill something.