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Pig farm
We live 15 miles north from the nearest town, where my father ran his farm. We've lots of chicken, pigs, goats,cows, and a small fish pond without any fish. I was 9 when I first began to lend my father a helping hand.
My father is known to be a kind, mild mannered, sweet and friendly guy to our neighbors, of course they don't live with him to know any better. He is a retired navy seal, every evening he drinks his favorite whiskey. He says it is to fight his demons. My father had done some terrible things during his service the ghost of which followed him back to home, whatever that ghost is, it is ugly. He often yells and screams in his sleep, grunts and moans twitches and kicks. Sometimes I find him in the middle of the night, at his room, holding his gun up barrel pressed under his chin. I know someday he is gonna do it, someday he is gonna pull that trigger just like he'd done on mother, but no one knows about what had happened to her except for me and my father. It is our little secret.
Jerald is our butcher and our delivery man. Every Friday evening he slaughtered pigs for Saturday's market and home delivery. He is an alcoholic too. Watching him work that meat cleaver always gives me a severe anxiety. It was only a matter of time before some of our costumers will be munching on his finger.
I resent Saturday mornings. My father wakes me up at 4 in the morning to help Jerald load the meat in the truck and to accompany on his trip to town.
Jerald used to be homeless before my father had found him wandering outside the town and offered him the job. He's lost everything in the hurricane, his house, his wife and two little girls. My father says he smelled like a wet rat when he first met him and now he smells like a dead pig. Not much has changed for Jerald since he took the job. He still struggles to survive but now under a roof with belly full of food.
to be continued...
My father is known to be a kind, mild mannered, sweet and friendly guy to our neighbors, of course they don't live with him to know any better. He is a retired navy seal, every evening he drinks his favorite whiskey. He says it is to fight his demons. My father had done some terrible things during his service the ghost of which followed him back to home, whatever that ghost is, it is ugly. He often yells and screams in his sleep, grunts and moans twitches and kicks. Sometimes I find him in the middle of the night, at his room, holding his gun up barrel pressed under his chin. I know someday he is gonna do it, someday he is gonna pull that trigger just like he'd done on mother, but no one knows about what had happened to her except for me and my father. It is our little secret.
Jerald is our butcher and our delivery man. Every Friday evening he slaughtered pigs for Saturday's market and home delivery. He is an alcoholic too. Watching him work that meat cleaver always gives me a severe anxiety. It was only a matter of time before some of our costumers will be munching on his finger.
I resent Saturday mornings. My father wakes me up at 4 in the morning to help Jerald load the meat in the truck and to accompany on his trip to town.
Jerald used to be homeless before my father had found him wandering outside the town and offered him the job. He's lost everything in the hurricane, his house, his wife and two little girls. My father says he smelled like a wet rat when he first met him and now he smells like a dead pig. Not much has changed for Jerald since he took the job. He still struggles to survive but now under a roof with belly full of food.
to be continued...
