Animal Harm - Chapter 4 - Part 3
On the History of Harm in Animals
Disclaimer
To a pig, words are more meaningful than actions. After all, what action could a pig partake in that could communicate or affect a world that wasn’t made for them? The humorous experience that lead to Genevieve’s father’s immolation was trite, meaningless, and cliché. Yet, the mechanical reason he immolated was because he could foresee how a human would “experience” the experience. I guess one could call that empathy. It was not the actions that disgusted the pig, but the human gaze: the language of observation. Lines and circles, meaning out of harm, the human flaw of wanting to salvage a broken home from the fires of salvation: these were the things that broke his little pig heart. And thinking of his wife, that it was done for no reason at all. This sort of thing is impossible to describe, i.e. what the pig really felt, but if I were to attempt to describe the humorous “human” “experience” (i.e. to describe it as if anything meaningful could spawn from a rebaño of people), it would be something like…
The lovers had spent some time outside and then snuck their way back into the house in search of a bed, being it was the only thing they had in common. The pigs weren’t surprised because they knew that humans were so simple that, given enough sex, a couple could work through just about anything. The father had designed the house in such a manner that the window of the master bedroom was adjacent to the window of the daughter’s room. He ensured that he could see the daughter’s attempts at escape from his bed. The pigs were situated on that face of the house for a similar reason. At this particular moment, the father was too preoccupied with his matrimonial duty to monitor the window. The lack of care in this instance was predestined since the moment that the father and the lover had their first handshake. The father’s obsession over the size of the lover’s penis would surely lead to the display currently occurring on the other side of the wall.
In reality, the daughter enjoyed that the lover countered racial delusions (she considered them stereotypes). Her soul grew inflamed when they locked the door, and she put her entire mouth over his tiny cock and balls. Heat concentrated around her mind as she drew her tongue around her lover’s genitalia, her laps growing in intensity as she remembered all the times she was forced to read in her room as opposed to the relatively far away library because of her father’s fear of her being tainted. Sometimes she would count the pigs outside her room and feel some twinge in her heart at seeing their numbers decrease every once in a while. Pontificating about pigs was the only time she felt human. She felt empathy and fervor campaigning for these pet atrocities out of some repressed guilt of being unwilling to confront her mother’s abuse (although, to be fair, she was a young person). Obviously not grateful for her father’s willingness (even if it was never more than or less than his nature) to exact his humanity for an image and a collection of persons that would never amount to anything; if she had any courage, she would have killed herself, ending the cycle of violence and pointlessness. But she wouldn’t: because she was just a hick, and a hick believes that by living long enough, anything, past or present, could be made beautiful. To stand on the shoulders of titans. The thing condemned to keep living? The thing at the top? The thing at the bottom? Just some fucking hick.
The self-flagellation combined with the sexual experience slowly crept towards climax. She delighted in how she could make him shudder with pleasure by exhaling a breath of hot air. The force of the vibrations dwarfed anything her lover’s genitalia could produce. If intelligence and dignity were measured with heat representing neurons firing, then one might be led to believe that this woman wasn’t the daughter of rapists and donkey fuckers. The mental gymnastics required to convince herself that she was spiting her father dwarfed the intellectual output of her ancestors or her eventual lineage. Regarding creativity, purpose, and kindness, she embodied everything humanity could aspire to. Yet, she did not disappear in the next moment. Taking this lack of disappearance as evidence that the concept of fulfillment was impossible, the idea of humanity aspired to live forever. Their mediocrity prevented them from imagining a death worth having, a life worth living. These people mistook climax for fulfillment.
On the lover’s part, he had resigned himself to the intellectual life: considering his rather unfortunate circumstances. But, he was delighted that she was not offended by his tools. Having already assigned himself to intellectual pursuits, he felt genuinely fulfilled that for once, he could please a woman without pity or disappointment: that he could look back at his life and his accomplishments and remember this one moment where regardless of any stereotypical violence, he was genuinely wanted as a sexual being; because, ultimately, even if he wasn’t a hick: he was still just a human being.
The pigs saw reality through the house’s walls, as when the family was in heat, they shone brightest. You could see them from four homes away. Sex is when humans reveal themselves, and since they were shameless, it made it almost impossible to look away. The moment was unique because the pigs had a wager (from this day on, it would be solved for future and past generations) that Freud was more of a poet than a philosopher and that no sentient being could be predicted in such a manner. They figured that Freud’s use of metaphor was for effect; because he thought it would be funny to fuck with other human beings. The pigs, for whatever reason, still had the hope that, even if only out of spite, a human being couldn’t actually be defined as the sexual foil to their parents. How could one possibly spend that much of their lives fucking over their parents and still subconsciously desire their parents: all over something as empty as sex? They saw four figures separated by a wall, aligning their souls for expression.
The mother was surprised at the father’s sudden interest in penetration. It had been years since the father had been authentically interested in making love to her. He usually saved the labor for special occasions, i.e., her birthday and anniversaries (he was this stupid). Even if the experience was, both in theory and in practice, for her pleasure, he didn’t dare look her in the eyes: so they did it how the dogs do. A similar occasion manifested itself as before, except in reverse, as the notion was always about his sensibilities. In reality, it wasn’t so much that he was more interested in oral sex but that he would rather have shit mixed near the middle of his dick instead of at the base. Concerning heat, this is when he shone brightest; to the point where the pigs were almost sure that he would reach immolation; hoping that humans in the future would be able to look back at the moment and the individual with the requisite sadness that any sentient being with a coherent notion of shame theoretically should be able to do: and finally have the courage to end it once and for all. Of course, this wasn’t possible because even at their most expressive, the man could only create a demon of spite. He bent over the lover as punishment for the “crimes” of his daughter. It became apparent to the pigs, forever into the future and the past: that there was no representation in violence. And although the father was fully human, he could never manifest the sense of self-assuredness necessary for love.
The mother tried as hard as she could to keep the heat in, but as the dick slithered in and out of her entrails, the man’s soul kept trying to pull her in. It would reach for the nearest heat source and claw it towards itself, sweat simmering as it fell towards her lower back. The battle lasted for twenty minutes or so before the demon successfully clawed the heat away from her heart. It tore apart the last vestiges of dignity and disbursed it around every inch of the penis. The thought of remembering the event put her in such shock that she retreated to her soul above; looking down at the event, she tried to remember it as a record instead of a memory. Throughout her life, upon recalling the moment, she was always appalled at how fastidious her husband looked; having never seen his face mid-coitus, she didn’t have the requisite context to understand that all men were like this: finally realizing the mistake of her life. To use a cliché: that was the first day of the end of her life.
Humans did not age gracefully since they preferred to spend their twilight years justifying their existence instead of thanking god for the opportunity to change. Every time upon remembering, before the memory ended, she noticed the cock sticking out of her mouth. She would then begin to trace it throughout her body, through all the roundabouts and toll gates of her internal organs, making a left turn at her appendix, contorting to the ripples of her lower intestine so no space could escape between the walls and the penis; making sure to disappear from one end of the cervical wall to the other back towards her ass; the man’s orgasm sent ripples throughout her body as it traveled through her personage, the flood following the unnecessary twists and turns making sure to jump over her cervix, ejaculating onto his pillow. When she finished examining the cum she would bashfully look at her own eyes and feel the weight of terror and generational sadness as she thought of the only word that could describe the facial expression––ecstasy.
Neither meaning nor reality could be derived from the pleasure of a hick. Although, since pleasure was all that humans aspired to, they would justify anything in so far as it was pleasurable. Humanity, emblematic of their cruelty, would derive from similar observations that she desired the fate; otherwise, she wouldn’t have climaxed, and in general, she would have left if she didn’t choose it. More importantly, that sort of thing wasn’t even illegal back then, so she had neither the language nor the impression that such a thing could be immoral. But these things changed over time, the legality of it at least, just how the legality of those individuals from whatever impoverished nation that needed to cross over whatever border that made them immoral also changed over time. What she was scared of? Miscegenation? No, that was her husband’s concern. Just that these people were presumably more likely to do something illegal. Why did that matter? Some notion of utility. People suffered; that’s why they were alive; it would be meaningless to say that anything that happened to her, or her mother, o los maricones, o los negros, o los inditos, had some semblance in abstract morality: there were compromises to be made. Presumably, eventually, the harm would be drowned out, and something meaningful could be spawned: utility. But even in that, she was wrong because ultimately: neither meaning nor reality could be derived from the pleasure of a hick.
The reality of utility is why humans got to where they were, and as long as children kept creating children, there was always a chance to make more utility. A human’s love of utility went hand in hand with their instincts for convenience; in reality, humans never became happier; their lives simply became more convenient. As long as the economics worked, it didn’t matter who died: they’d be forgotten eventually. That was the secret of human prosperity, a forgetfulness towards the transcendental sadness of violation. As to why sentient beings couldn’t feel the pain of others? The best explanation must be that since humans didn’t have sensitivity towards nor the ability to understand immolation, they believed sadness ended with death.
In the meantime, the lovers had moved on from oral sex and, after a refractory period, decided to hop onto the childhood bed and finish the evening. The lover’s size was difficult to work with, but the daughter’s ingenuity extended beyond her years, so they discovered a way to make it work. He enjoyed having her on all fours and had a remarkable talent (considering the circumstances) for maintaining his pelvis within the requisite range for sex to be considered contiguous. She enjoyed her time with him; she enjoyed thinking about what sex represented and that he had no authority to make her feel anything. Although she was very young, she had already learned that although men would say anything about any topic; with whatever effect, men: when push came to shove (which is to say when the cum is coming out), would abandon the notion of mutual pleasure and get a nut off, so it was better to find a man with no sexual agency and to lead him towards what she wanted.
The sex was genuinely consensual; he loved thinking about the almost irony of his domination over the hick, the not-yet cliched, clandestine nature of interracial sex, the euphemism of his hands shackling her wrists: how uncomfortable the father had made him feel at the dinner table, the meaninglessness of the daughter’s spite; the meaningless of the act: the warmth of his teenage love before the spoiler of sex became a given, ruining his prospects: the meaninglessness of teenage love because what’s the value of love from someone who knows next to nothing about the world, he thought of Eden, of the promise of better angels, what civilization was supposed to tame, the history of his mother, violation, better angels: ecstasy. What was lost could never be attained, and in reality, nothing was lost because the descendants of Adam and Eve were so far from paradise that the release of knowledge onto death and into the concept of heaven was the closest any human could ever get to imagining Eden. The lil hick thought of slightly more grounded realities. About whether or not she could get away with callin’ him the n-word, whether she could get away with asking demanding he spank her, about the sense of emasculation when she made him cum with a breath of hot air; about whether if he choked her if her thoughts would become more intense if she would die before she came, or if it would happen at the same time: she begged him to choke her. Heat concentrated so precisely in the lovers’ heads that the pigs thought they were about to explode.
As he followed her request, he began to light up, sweat leaking down his forearms from the concentration. He thought again of Eden before he caught a glimmer of a snout. He considered it a delusion because what kind of inbred would build a pig pen outside their daughter’s bedroom? When pleasure snapped back to reality, he realized; he was leaving marks on her; he relaxed and immediately started cumming. He was lucky because she was about to die, and as to her question? She came first; she gasped for breath, grateful, and fell asleep. When the lover came to, he looked outside to notice that the pigs were outside. Embarrassed, he put on his clothes and left the house. He thought of pigs, a pig’s Eden, just a bunch of mud? Just their own shit? (we moved shit to one side of the mud, to be fair). Sex and death for consumption? After the next time he and his lover spoke, he found some excuse to never speak to her again and went to pursue the passions informed by insecurity.