Cold bites deep into my skin, raw and exposed where my coat once was. My limbs are bound, splayed on a butcher’s rack, the world spinning as I drift from uneasy sleep into nightmare. I shudder, the sharp sting of missing fur burning across my back, and the metallic tang of my own fear fills my mouth. I hear giggles—high, snorting, and merry—echoing just beyond the bars, the clatter of pots and the sloshing of brine punctuating the air.
They come for me—little hooves pattering, aprons tied, cheeks flush with anticipation. Mama Pig, matriarch and chef, stands above me, eyes glittering with glee. She lifts a brush, cool oil dripping onto my skin, spreading slick and heavy over my exposed flank. "Make sure you get every inch, children. We want our guest to be crispy and golden." I flinch as they giggle, their voices rising in a cruel chorus. An apple—bright red, waxy—forced between my jaws. The humiliation is complete.
They haul me, trussed and trembling, onto a tray. The warmth of the oven’s mouth washes over me, thick and suffocating. Brother Pig, eager and careless, bounces at the door. "Do you think it hurts? I bet it does, all that tough wolf hide." I want to snarl, to spit the apple back in his face, but my jaw is locked and my throat too dry. I remember my old life—the howling wind, moonlit runs, the taste of snow, not brine. I wonder if they ever felt this fear, these pigs who now laugh at my expense.
Heat seeps into my bones, the basting oil hissing as it bubbles on my skin. Their voices filter through the oven door, muffled but jubilant. Sister Pig, her laughter syrupy sweet, calls out, "Don’t forget the marshmallows on the yams! And mash the potatoes extra creamy, just like Papa likes them." My mind reels with memory: hunting in the forest, the crisp snap of a hare’s bones, the proud arch of my mother’s back. Now, I am the feast. Dignity slips from me like the last tufts of fur, and all that’s left is a stubborn flicker of anger—I will not beg. I will not break.
My world narrows to a pinpoint of pain and heat. The oven opens, and I am paraded, steaming and splayed, before the hungry eyes of my captors. Mama Pig carves, her blade slicing through flesh and memory. "What a feast! Truly, we have so much to be thankful for." Their voices blur, the clink of glasses rising in a toast, and the taste of smoke fills my fading thoughts. I strain to remember the forest, the moon, the freedom of running—anything but this.
No laughter now, only the slow, satisfied sighs of the pigs, the scrape of forks on china. My consciousness drifts, untethered, slipping into a silence deeper than the oven’s heat. The world dims, and somewhere far away, a wolf’s howl echoes, unanswered.
