Last Christmas

Last Christmas

Monday. We agreed on Monday the 26th. Three of us had planned to torture the filthy animal. We wore our darkest clothes that day, just in case. My darkest clothe was a dark purple gown that touched the floor whenever I slouched slightly, forcing me to walk straight all the time. My mother did not believe in wearing black.


We gave ourselves a name, “The triad”. 6. 00 pm was the time. That’s the same time our mothers went for the 3-hour evening service organized by the Glory with Fire ministry.


We stood side by side, me in a dark purple maxi dress, my other two partners in red and dark green jumpsuits. Their mothers allowed trousers but no black as well.


We matched to the shed. The animal was tied to a chair, that was over a bucket of used diesel.

” So you think you can defy the triad?”, my dark green-clad partner asked. The only sounds she was replied with was squawking.


I emptied a bucket of cold water on the animal. More squawking. My partner in red took the machete she had stolen from her father’s farm and put it dangerously close to the neck of the poor animal.


On the 24th, the chicken my mother had told me to tie to the backyard railings went missing. My mother had been very convinced that it was because I did not do as I was told that it ran away, she did not even consider that it would be the chicken’s fault. She had to buy another chicken with the money she told me she planned for I and my sibling’s Christmas clothes.


I knew the chicken. I remembered the chicken, with its beady eyes and black neck. I recognized it one day when I was going home from school. I was with my friends then and I told them how the chicken did me dirty. It was their suggestion to show the chicken who was the boss.


Looking at how the machete my friend held, stayed dangerously close to the chicken’s neck I started rethinking my decisions. This is what happens when you go against your mother and watch ‘The Expendables’ in the TV shop at the end of the street.

I told my friend to drop the machete. She did, but she picked up a knife. The chicken could sense the threat already, it was breathing hard. If chickens could sweat, it would have made buckets. The squawking had increased, it probably thought it was better dead.

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