Livia J. Elliot

You have to carry the fire.

How does the never to be differ from what never was?

Just remember that the things you put into your head are there forever.

What you put in your head is there forever?
Yes.
It's okay Papa. [...] They're already there.

You have to carry the fire.
I don't know how to.
Yes, you do.
Is the fire real? The fire?
Yes it is.
Where is it? I don't know where it is.
Yes you do. It's inside you. It always was there. I can see it.

No one can call them humans because that would mean giving them an identity. They call them product, or meat, or food. Except for him; he would prefer not to have to call them by any name.

He cleans her chest, armpits, stomach. Diligently, as though he were cleaning a valuable but inanimate object. He's nervous, as if the object could break, or come to life.

He strokes her neck. Now he's the one who trembles. He removes his jeans and stands there, naked. His breath quickens. He continues to hug her as it rains down. What he wants to do is prohibited. But he does it anyway.

She spends hours watching television, sleeping, drawing, staring at a fixed point. At times, it seems she's thinking, like she really can.

Before going into the plant, he sits in the car for a few seconds and looks at the complex of buildings. They're white, compact, efficient. There's nothing to indicate that inside them humans are killed.