“I kill 80 pigs a day.
I come home and my daughter asks me to pet our little dog.
My name is Massimo, I work on a factory farm.
I’m the hand. I’m the executioner.
The mechanism that turns terror into silence.
The sun never shines here.
The days are marked by smells:
chlorine, shit, blood.
Every day. Every day.
They arrive.
We call them “the material.”
Piled up, one on top of the other. Exhausted. Terrified.
It’s their last day: they understand it perfectly.
Electric shocks.
A few beatings.
Then a blow to the head.
Blade to the throat.
Some remain conscious, but it’ll all be over in five minutes anyway.
It’s a waltz.
One, two, three: he looks around. I shock him.
One, two, three: he understands what’s about to happen. A beating.
One, two, three: he wants Run away. I block his head.
One, two, three: screams. A blow to the head and a blade.
Every year in Italy, we “process” 13 million of them like this.
They call it the production chain.
The assembly line of death.
Yesterday, however, a “material” behaved differently.
It was still. Silent.
It stared me in the eyes.
Then, with a wet muzzle, it licked my hand.
A plea? A desperate plea for mercy? Yes, it’s the final message of someone who knows it’s over.
Then the boss shouted:
“There are deadlines!”
A blow and a blade.
They say they’re as smart as three-year-olds, you know?
They understand. They feel. They hope.
They recognize their name.
Three years old. Like Sophia.
It’s for her that I do this.
When I open the door, she runs to me:
“Dad, give Arthur a pat!”
Arthur licks me.
He looks me straight in the eyes.
He trusts me.
Arthur looks at me and trusts me…
He has the same look, precise, crystalline, innocent: the same look before the attack.
So this morning it wasn’t mercy?
Why was he looking me in the eyes?
That bastard didn’t want mercy: he wanted to trust.
How dare he do that?
How dare he trust me, damn it?
I can’t breathe.
A few minutes later I’m at the table.
My wife has cooked the sausages.
“Eat them, they’re getting cold.”
Sorry.
But I can’t tonight.
I can’t.”