Apartheid

It feels great to be a cat, even when there's no real hope. 
There’s no such thing as right or wrong where I was brought up from. Only separation and mindless behavior. Only invisible walls breaking us apart, shingling us together by human or common house animals. You know what, though? It isn’t so bad, especially when you have comfort food to keep you at ease. Something tasty to relieve the anxiety. Mine is quite specific, but I’m sure you’d love it too, unless you’re some piece of shit “vegetarian.” Don’t lie to me. 
Recently, I went to class with my little brother, and after quite some time of hearing what the teacher had to say about career choices, and art, lunchtime came. We were served a dish that we all (well, most of us) love with a burning passion: fried pork cutlets with a choice of milk or water. Me and my kin loved it the most. What can we say? Holding onto our instincts is like an alcoholic going through Asahi withdrawal.
See, I love it because of the crunch, the sinking feeling against my molars, the overall texture, whatever you can think of when the thought of a hunk of warm meat bubbles up in your head. There was one kid who hated it, though. He sat next to us and always bothered the professor, but no one cared what he had to say. He acted like a lapdog to him anyway. Like our mentor was the grand fromage. Who would want to give grease to the squeaky wheel?
Me and my sibling would leave at around 1:45, having a nice breath of relief from the weekend being just around the corner, and us having the rest of the day to ourselves without that fat hog breathing down our instructor’s neck. So many people irritate me, every single day. That one kid was just a peck on the cheek of ennui. On my way home, we heard the barks and growls of a rabid Samoyed, foaming from the mouth. No wonder they call it a “spitz” breed. Might have been bitten by a squirrel or something, I don’t know.
Anyway, it annoyed the fuck out of us, so my brother pinned its back to the ground and I beat it to smithereens with my lunchbox, containing some of the leftover cutlet I ate at school. No one saw us, thankfully. The segregation gets real, even with pets, but come on, even though we left it alive, it was going to die anyway. What normal person in this cruel world would bother touching that? 
I finally made it home. My mother was too busy cooking to even notice us, and my dad was piss drunk on the sofa. Being home was kind of a mixed bag for me. Sometimes I didn’t want to be here, sometimes I did. Even though my father drinks like a sailor and my mother hits like a truck when we do something she doesn’t like, I can’t help but wonder if she even wants to do that. Sometimes, I feel like I deserve a punch in the head. It’s true, I am a little shit. I will not lie.
I tried to go to sleep tonight, but my sibling woke me up at three in the morning. I wondered what he could’ve possibly wanted from me at this time of night, so I told him to just spit it out and not give me any of that mewing crap. That’s when he waddled downstairs, gesturing for me to wait. He came back around a minute later, holding some ham slices from the fridge. What he was trying to say made me scratch my chin a little bit, but then it clicked.
We both love pork with all our soul and mind. Like a fat man loves his donuts. He wanted to know if I’ve ever tried it raw before. Fresh from the guts of a living piglet. I lied on my back, befuddled by what he indirectly said, but I imagined it. The esophagus, heart, lungs, and liver of a hog, circling around my head. It made me lick my lips. Fuck, the flavor had to have been extraordinary, knowing how warm it must feel down my throat. I could imagine swallowing a pig’s tongue with one gulp. 
My mom and dad always hated pigs, though. For how disgusting they and their living conditions were, truthfully. Hell, eating after them is kind of prohibited when I’m around her. But, after a bit of thinking, would it really matter if I snuck out to get a living one? She was too tired and in dreamland to even get up, and I knew for certain that my dad wasn’t gonna do shit, knowing his problem with that sweet nectar.
We decided to hop out the window, but not without bringing an extra cleaver from the kitchen in case their skin was thicker than we thought.
Upon arriving at the location that my brother led me to, I eyed upon a familiar sight, sleeping with two obese, yet delicious monstrosities. That flabby, greasy hog from school, and his sibling, lying on their sides behind metal bars. This just made me want to follow along with my brother’s idea even more. He’s such an annoying toad, that if he were gone, no one from school would even miss him. And his brother? Never knew him, never cared. Easy pickings. 
I crawled over the bars like a prison escapee, extending my honed, untrimmed claws as I positioned myself in front of the two balls of flesh. My brother stood next to their supposed parents, gnawing on the cleaver’s handle in his little mouth. With one good stretch, I extend my fingers into the air, and jab them directly into the cervical spine of the living pork slab. Instead of shrieking like the piggy he is, his eyes jolted open, and he’d quietly gasp for air. The maroon fluid would trickle down my fingers. Damn, the pigs writhe in their filth so much, that even their blood has a little bit of dirtiness to it. I didn’t mind, though. It’s all about the relish.
His brother was just about to squawk out of pure fear, but I shoved my fist down his gullet just in time, shutting him up. I began to welt at his belly with my free hand, suffocating him until I felt his breath vanish. Nothing but cricket sounds pounded against my eardrum.
The heftier ones were a little rough to scratch up, but weirdly enough, they didn’t make a sound when we were trying to cut them open. They made small oinks when we hurt them, but other than that, they just sat there, taking it. It’s as if they were too fat to move, let alone defend themselves. Like they didn’t care that they were going to die. After some roughing up on their bellies, we finally decided to just use the cleaver to make sure they were truly silenced.
Anyway, the feast was an… interesting experience, to say the least. Not bad, though. At first, when we finally tore them open, I wanted to back out. The sight of all the subcutaneous fat under their rough skin made me want to hurl, but I kept in mind that there was a buffet underneath and I stopped pussying out. If you think the amount we found in their kids was bad, you should’ve seen the parents. 
After digging through so much fat, we finally made it to the cave of delectable meats that was their insides. The sight of it all made my mouth water. I spotted just about everything that floated around my head back at the house. We ate like starving lions that night. It was fantastic. So fantastic, that we had to make the most of it, as we wouldn’t be able to do this sort of thing again. The parents? Even better. It wasn’t just a buffet inside of them; it was a full-on smorgasbord. Perfection. This was even better than the time we fucked up that mole lady, but that was moreso out of anger than hunger.
My favorite part had to have been the heart. So much dressing on the inside, and such an easy bite on the outside. It was quite salty, but the warmth of the viscera and red fluids cooked it well enough. I didn’t mind the saltiness, not one bit. Everything else was quite appetizing, except the stomach. It looked fucking disgusting, dripping with swampy, uncolored fluid. I didn’t even bother eating that. I threw it over my shoulder.
When we were finally finished, we didn’t even bother cleaning up after ourselves. We just left them there, to eventually decompose, before hopping the unroofed cage and racing back home, without a care in the world. All while the teacher’s pet and his three blobs sat motionless throughout the night. Upon arriving, we washed our paws over the spigot outside, just so we wouldn't make a mess going back into our home, before we crawled back into our room and went straight to bed. Honestly, I don’t think our mother would mind if we had blood on our hands at this point; as long as they belonged to a pig. 
Weeks passed and we were never caught. No one at school regarded that pig boy, and even if they did, they made fun of him. Rightfully so. Pigs don’t deserve the love we non-wretches get. We don’t bathe in mud compared to them. However, half of me says that I’m kind of secretly filthy myself, alongside my brother. We did kill four pigs, but we ate them too. If my mom found out I laid the tip of my tongue on one, raw, I would have a lump growing out of my scalp right now.
And if there’s a slim chance people don’t like what I did, whatever. They don’t know the fine taste of pork.
Let them eat shit.
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