Private journal
My colleagues have begun taking bets on which part of some poor animal will be found first here in Quarantine. The head of a hare? Slashed coyote ribs? They are good men, really, and I know none of them would let such trivial thoughts interfere with their work. They are bored; that is all. Still, their conduct makes me uneasy. Boredom leads to a strange sort of desperation; have they not observed this themselves?
Not one of them dares to bet on the sleepers, those humans that wander outside the enclosure. I see the thought in their eyes, but it goes unspoken. Forbidden. Instead, they bet the life and limbs of the desert animals, perhaps in the hope that her tastes, at least, have retained that particular refinement we will call human.
Today, as I am sure has been recorded, blood was found. I wonder if they now curse even those thoughts that went unspoken.
No comments:
Post a Comment