Page 13 of Milk & Malice: Vadik

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Your hooves.

Your horns.

You’ll stand eventually.

I cleaned your stumps.

My greatest achievement.

My cow.

I’d screamed until my throat went hoarse.

Now I couldn’t even open my mouth.

Not with the gag soaked in spit. Not with the shame choking me harder than the cloth ever could.

I tried to move again. Reflex. Stupid.

I couldn’t bend my arms.

Because I didn’t have arms.

Not really.

Not anymore.

I turned my head just enough to see the white curve of it—my…hoof.

A real fucking hoof.

It glinted dully under the surgical light.

Wide. Cloven. Black.

It twitched when I flinched.

It was attached to me.

I wanted to be sick but there was nothing left in my stomach.

Not after seven weeks under. Seven weeks of slicing.

Seven weeks of being“cared for.”

I remembered the smell. The sterile stink of antiseptic and the meat-sweet scent of blood.

My blood.

My limbs.

My chest rose in shallow, sharp bursts. It wasn’t a panic attack. It wasn’t fear.

It was worse.

Realisation.

This wasn’t a nightmare.

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