LAMB TO THE SLAUGHTER

She dreaded the dawn. Often she would wake thinking that it had just been a bad dream. Then she would realise that she was mistaken, that it was not a nightmare.

Or that if it were, it was one that began with the daylight, not the night. She was always conscious of its presence, even in her happiest moments, waiting inexorably to claim

her again.

She’d had a nasty fight with her husband the previous night. It left her terribly shaken. She had been trying futilely, for the hundredth time, to get him to understand. He would never understand. Nobody could who had never shared the experience. How she envied everyone in the other world!  His world coexisted with hers but was totally separate. His attitude hurt her terribly.  She wished she could turn to him for comfort, but every time she tried he shut her out, refusing to ‘indulge’ her in what he called her ‘foolishness’.

She couldn’t put off leaving home any longer. She went wearily to catch the bus. That was another part of the horror: the seemingly endless journey to her destination, trapped with them and with their noise, their disrespect, that made her wish every day that she could just get off at the next stop and return home. Return home for good. Instead, she stayed on, her chest getting tighter as she got closer to the end of the journey.

The bus was there now. It still wasn’t too late to turn back. She could stay on the bus and make the return journey to town. But she had already stayed away a day that week.

They were going through the usual daily farce when she arrived. The man on the platform was attempting, vainly, to capture their attention. It was as if he wasn’t there. They were talking loudly, laughing raucously, many congregated in little groups, backing the platform. The man on the platform threatened them with punishment. They booed. There wasn’t very much he could do, and they knew it. His hands were tied.. He knew it too. He was just as helpless as all the others.

A fight erupted, most likely on the flimsiest of pretexts. They usually were.  She stood looking on, sickened but unsurprised. They were always fighting. They fought for nothing at all surrounded by scores jumping and screaming in delight as they were doing now. Others stampeded out the doors on either side in malicious delight at being able to wreak further disruption. That was the end of the morning’s proceedings. The farce was, mercifully, over for that day.

They were just too many, all of the same type. There was so little reasoning ability, such uncalled for savagery in their behaviour, such imperviousness to the degraded environment of their own making, one which was almost unbearable to any self-respecting person.

It was time to go to the first pack. She couldn’t put it off any longer. She had already gained five precious minutes in the bathroom. She had to go now. Every instinct of self-preservation screeched at her in desperation, warning her not to go. But she had to, even though she knew exactly what would happen. Even though she wanted to run, run, run down the driveway and never come back. She had to.

She almost slipped on the stairs. They were slippery, covered in a soup of mud. She was baffled. She still could not understand after so many years. The entire place was surrounded by concrete walkways, yet they persisted in walking through the mud whenever it rained. Packs and packs of them, strolling through the mud, however thick or slushy. A horde of them was rushing down the stairs now, screaming abuse at another one who had just passed her. As they ran past one of them jostled her with such force that she stumbled and clutched desperately at the railing for support. Her books fell into the mud on the stairs. She stood staring numbly at them, chest tight, heart pounding. She tried to breathe slowly and deeply; she had to abort the tears. As she bent to pick up her things she heard the sound of the fight breaking out behind her.

She reached the top of the stairs. She felt drained already, and she hadn’t even started yet. The noise was deafening. Screams, curses, quarrels. Hordes of them actually running, galloping up and down, aimlessly, shrieking. They wouldn’t move out of the way. She had to squeeze past trying to ignore the remarks, chest tight, face impassive.

As she got to the room several of them rushed out, going in the opposite direction. She called to them. They ignored her. She reached the door. A rank odour of ammonia assaulted her. They must have urinated in the refuse bin some time before. She went into the room and greeted them. They ignored her.

There was a horrible altercation going on in the back of the room. Several were ganged around two others who were shouting obscenities at each other. Before she could get to the back of the room furniture was overturning. A bottle was broken, jagged edges brandished in the air. Her heart was pumping so hard and fast she could hear the blood rushing in her ears. The rest were jumping up and down, shouting at the tops of their lungs in encouragement and glee.

She forced her way through them and put herself between the opponents. She grabbed the one with the chair leg, pleading desperately, focusing on the glaring eyes, trying to overcome the mindless rage with what little remained of her will power. The rest were crowding them, jostling them and shouting obscenities angrily at her, trying to get the fire raging again.

This time she was lucky.

Things didn’t settle down afterwards. It was usually bad, but today was even worse. They were angry because she had stopped the bloodshed. They were even more uncooperative than usual, if that was possible. They were making it clear how much they resented her, resented anything that represented an attempt at order. They raged on and on, cursing, drumming on the walls, on the furniture. They were so many!  She was trapped there. She dared not leave in case another fight broke out. She had to stay. She had to stay and take the taunting, the rage, the chaos, the noise. She had to stay and take the assault.

When the bell rang, mercifully, she gathered her belongings and walked silently to the door, head held high, to the accompaniment of loud jeering.  But she had to go to others. She had to go to another pack. There was no respite, nowhere to go to get away from them. They were everywhere. There was no place to go, no place to get away from the rage, the chaos, the noise. 

Somehow she had to take it until the end of that day, and the next, until the end of the week.  Two fleeting days of normalcy.

And then it would begin all over again….

*                    *                    *

The journey down had been torture. She felt battered. She dropped into a chair and started to weep. But she had to control herself. She had to get the evening meal started. Her husband would soon be returning from work. He would be tired and hungry.

He walked into the kitchen as she was cutting up the meat. Tears were still trickling down her face. He stopped in exasperation. She could tell that he had had a hard day himself and was in no mood for any more of her tears. She tried again to apologise, to explain, but he cut her short. He shouted that it was time she stopped behaving like a spoilt child. They needed the money.  And she was lucky. Which other job allowed so much paid vacation time? He knew a lot of people who would be glad to have it so easy.

He was shaking her roughly now, yelling. Her heart began pounding violently. There was a roaring in her ears. Suddenly she was screaming too, and stabbing, stabbing and stabbing and stabbing, to make the noise and anger stop.

And this time, she did.