Innocence
Hi. Er, hello. Uh...guess I'm not totally sure how to start here. Never considered myself a public speaker of any kind. Y'know, I get a little nervous; my stomach starts tightening, there's some shaking going on in the knees, the whole jazz. I've always been like that. You get what I mean, right?
But when your quivering legs are causing tremors of magnitudes ranking somewhere between two and three on the Richter scale because you're so gosh darn big, well, then you've gotta find some way around your problems. Plus, technically, this isn't all that public of a conversation, so there goes the second half. Geez...you honestly have no idea how much it means to me that someone, anyone, would sit here and listen to my views on these things for a change. So I'll suck it up and, and...well--here we go.
And thanks again. A lot. I really mean that.
All right, let's begin with...okay, how about a sense of scale? You look up at your local department store and check how tall it is compared to you. Take it in for a sec, how big is it really? I mean the one closest to where I lived is like four stories. Though, when it comes to legitimate measurement for the sake of comparison, we can say three stories because it has a basement. Being underground and such.
Anyway, point is I'm too tall to lean an elbow on it now. Let's go with an estimate of forty-five feet. Sorry if that's a little inaccurate, but I think it's close.
I'll be honest, it's a little bit jarring when you're that big and...someone can just sort of look up at you, and you know, you just friggin' know that their thoughts are something like "Jesus Christ" and that's about all that goes through them. Jarring and a little scary. Scary...oh boy, that actually describes the whole series of events pretty well.
I'm Clarice Lavender. Just your average grey husky, though if you're looking for some uniqueness I guess I have these black accents of fur. I'm all layered like that. Well, I liked to think of myself as 'normal'. 'Bout as relatively normal as it got, really. If you couldn't tell, that did change a bit. It all started some amount of time over a month ago; was fresh out of college, actually. Didn't quite have a job all ready yet, but it was close. I managed to grab an internship for a government-funded science institute called 3-Step. Bit of a perky name if you ask me, but I think it was supposed to represent...y'know, three steps toward the future. Or something.
Let's see--this is where it gets...interesting, for lack of better words. Interesting in a way I'd certainly call bad. I became a test subject quicker than I could object to because of their ease of access (their access to me, that is) and my times of availability--in return, my parents, still technically in custody of me despite me being twenty-two because I hadn't moved out yet, got some rather charitable cuts of their funding.
Why didn't my parents have a problem with it? That's one hell of a loaded question in a way--and I'm sorry if I sound a bit resentful, but this is more personal than interesting. I'll be frank with you: I'm adopted. They aren't my real parents. I don't know who they are to any meaningful extent. Sally and Joseph...Carter. Not Lavender. They didn't even bother to change my last name. Does that show you how much they cared about what could happen to me?
I live in a relatively quiet town, mind you. Not a crapload of crime, nothing really bad going on--though I will say I don't agree with the local government's decisions at times. I'm not huge on politics, but I know when something's a bad decision. And...wow, have there been some bad decisions lately.
Let's be realistic: you can't dance around the less pleasant aspects of society forever. There are criminals; thieves, murderers, rapists, among the rabble of generally bad things. And in due punishment, there is a justice system in place for whenever these people are caught.
However, recently it's hit a point where the death penalty has been shot down. The very concept got revoked and considered unlawful, because of all the rampant bureaucracy that is and will be. I didn't have any qualms with that at first. Unfortunately, somehow life sentence didn't become a valid alternative even in place of that. "Inhumane" is what they called the former, but the real reason--and everyone already knew--was the term "inefficient". They didn't like the methods used to put people down, even the quick and easy deaths like injections, because they couldn't salvage anything from the process without getting chewed out. Goddamn. It's horrible.
And I don't just say it's horrible because of the logistics behind the decision. I say it gets much worse depending on who you are. It's horrible because, guess what, capital punishment came back just a month ago, like a bullet-ridden corpse that just won't stay the hell down. It's horrible because of how easily a decision like that is made and, frankly, how little people can do about it sometimes.
But let's not get ahead of myself. It's really horrible because that's where I come into the whole scheme of things. Me with my horrible newfound size and horrible little-thing-crushing abilities.
That's right: I am the death sentence.
Remember that testing I mentioned earlier? Well, after those experiments and such, well, you can size me up and see what the results are. I remember being told that some of their best scientists potentially had created a safe way to halve and double metabolism for the sake of countering certain medical conditions. They put me on anesthetic and put me into the most surreal sleep--and then I woke up all huge, and outside. Thankfully by the time my awakening had rolled around, they'd draped me in a giant sheet of silk. Sort of like the apron-thingies they have you wear when you're getting checked in a hospital. Except a lot less legitimate.
The day after it happened, the 'pharmacist' that made me what I am approached me outside the lab's left wing, alongside some other suited people. He was a fox that spoke with the worst of callous and condescending voices, and though his manner of speech creeped me out a little when I was still an intern, now it only made me hate him more.
I was so afraid at the time so when I saw the group, I felt a bit of relief bubble up in me. Like I figured they had a cure, and it'd all be okay--but then I tossed another analysis of those bug-sized guys, and when I noticed that my parents weren't among them...well, that was my first hint.
"We have some news for you, Clarice," the pharmacist began. That's when it began to fall apart a little in my mind--or come together, if we're talking about my understanding of what was really happening. "Not all good and not all bad, that is. Don't you worry your pretty head. We've had a little talk with your parents and some nice folks from the executive branch..."
Er...anyway. I'm really, really sorry to omit some things, but that's a conversation I'd rather not continue. But I can sum it up, if that's okay. I promise I won't leave anything else out--for the better or for the worse.
They brought up some awful points. These are the kinds of people I absolutely despise. They said now that I'm this size, how else would they sustain me? How else would they keep me fed? How else would they make use of me as a person at all? They didn't want to kill me, oh no, that would be far too cruel. Y'know, after the few bouts of testing they did on me that lead to me being this way in the first place.
Speaking of which, they could successfully discern that given my newfound scale, my metabolism was slowed proportionally by roughly 56%. It meant I would have less of an appetite and would only need to eat perhaps once a day--but at my size, that still required a lot of food. That's why they didn't want to just funnel junk down my throat--that'd cost far too much.
So now I'm a gigantic freak who only gets hungry every now and again. Insult to injury if you ask me, even if in the end it's for the better.
But that's all where it gets really fucked up.
It's true, canids like myself do eat meat. I'm used to getting pre-hunted animal meat, like wild four-legged cats and actual livestock like cows from the market. But those are animals! We're people, we're not the same--we've made that distinction centuries ago.
You understand, then, that what I wanted wasn't part of the equation. I was huge, I was a commodity, and there was only one way to deal with it. One way to keep myself useful while they found some way to return me to normal.
Needless to say, I wasn't happy about it. I...okay, I can bring myself to go back to that conversation for just a sec.
"You want me...to eat people?!" I yelled. "Who do you think you are?"
"You don't have to eat every single one," the fox said. He wasn't wearing his lab coat and garb now, but he sure gave that stifling feeling of a pompous elitist not worthy of my trust. "But, of course, it is highly recommended that you do so when you can. Keep in mind that these people are the worst society has to offer--you are doing us all a favor in being so brave. They have already earned their place, you're simply the means."
Brave. That's a word I won't ever forget coming out of his mouth. I didn't have a say in the matter at all--brave is knowing the fear you have and deciding to act anyway. This wasn't that. You know what it was?
This was them seeing me more as a garbage disposal than a person. And here, it dealt away with any of the problems of "inefficiency" the death sentence supposedly had before. That's what it was.
Now...let's be realistic. I made it sound as horrible as possible, but listen to me for a moment, because this might not be what you want to hear.
Sure. In other tales like this, I guess it'd be easy to feel a little sympathetic. But I think, and no offense, that's as far as it goes in regards to how much of it you actually understand. In those situations you'd probably think that I was a little adverse to the idea at first, and then grew onto it--I was killing criminals, after all. That and there's the assumption of the opposite, where I went in thinking it wasn't too big a deal, and then it hit me really hard just what I was getting into later. One of the two. Fairly easy to grasp.
Well, no. Nothing so simple. It never was simple.
It was all like a mental rollercoaster, where I arrived at the gallows with this sort of uncertain mix of possible feelings--guilt, uncertainty, confusion--and yet, couldn't feel satisfied with those labels alone. I can talk your ears off about that later. Wouldn't want to pile it all onto you like it happened to me.
Anyway, I guess I've got no choice but to start now. You probably know where this has to go now that we're where we are, but...geez. Let's get on with it, then.
My first day.
****
I was a little worried, and I think that's somewhat justified. Justified in more ways than I've said, anyway. There were two cameras in this giant room, the room that was now my home, their lenses sweeping the area like giant voyeuristic brooms to wipe it free of any sense of comfort. It was incredibly unsettling to know that they were watching me--making sure that when the job was at hand, I would get it done.
Greying concrete stretched every which way, a colorless and bleak place that smelled one part mold and two parts dust, illuminated by some low-powered lamps a few feet above me in place of any windows. The one thing I knew about it was that it was the only place that could house me--the ancient, now-vestigial wing of the local police station that was used for public executions a long time ago, in a different age. It was completely empty. I had to assume that it was kept for purely memorial reasons, maybe due to its use in old civil wars or something. A gallows in its most...preserved form. That was the truth.
And in the farthest back end of my head, I realized it was about to assume its old service.
The slab of steel clanked open loudly and without any sort of grace. The meat walked in, arms crossed and neck hunched a little. It was obvious she knew what her fate was, that she was about to receive her end of karma. Or, what our justice system likes to call karma. I won't call it skewed yet because I didn't know what her charges were. However, she had no friggin' idea just how this would go about. Most people would probably assume they'd be taken in to a nice room, told it would all be over quickly as they were strapped to a bed, then injected nice and clean.
But fuckin' nope. This girl, this ocelot, walked in with a sort of sulk, nothing really signifying that she actually knew what she was getting into. But then the giant chunk of steel that the wardens called a door slammed behind her and locked tight, she started up, and I watched her head tilt around...then up...and straight into me. The giant husky with a body almost too big for the pen, with teeth bigger than her entire measly body, and with paws huge enough to crush five of her at once.
Her lower jaw oscillated uncontrollably for a few moments as if barely holding back a stomach-turning scream. That sort of noise never managed to escape her. We stood at a standstill for a few seconds. I spent all that time scanning her; she wasn't wearing prison garb, probably as a last mercy--if you can call it that--just, you know, normal clothes. In fact, a modest dress, with a button-up shirt and shoes without any sort of lace. Fairly formal.
Oh lord...she looked so friggin' innocent. And she couldn't possibly have been all that old. I'm in my super-early twenties myself, but...what the hell, she couldn't have been older than eighteen or nineteen. Could she have really committed something atrocious enough to earn her this? And even worse, even if she did, that meant that she just bypassed the potential status as a juvenile offender--she was getting the sharp end of the stick, not the short one.
Then another part of me nagged. Every rank of criminal and bad guy down to the hardest of boiled eggs is gonna want to look for any chance at escape, right? Possibly trying to give their executioner a good first impression, in this case--what if she dressed up like this just to garner some sympathy? I had to think like someone would have to in this position, right? I peered into the camera nearby, it whirring in response to my quick glance, with that exact thought grazing past my forehead: Don't trust her, right?
Whether she was innocent or not--that wasn't any of my business at the moment, and as much as it pained me to the point of bursting a blood vessel or two, the standoff had to culminate somehow. And even if this person wasn't innocent, and really was a bad person deserving of something this bad...in all truth, that didn't change much.
Think about it. In my mind, I wasn't a professional in this line of work, even though I tried my best to empathize with one--with that, I could never find the heart to let anybody go, because that's not my job. It's a weird feeling I can't explain as well as I want to, because my brain was split into two. I...I felt so lost that the only thing to do was what I feel, right now, is the wrong thing.
I leaned over and let my fingers curl around her body and watched as they morphed themselves into a full-fledged grab, for no other reason than that I had to. And just that act was not easy in any sense of the word. Mentally some part of me was asking me if I was going to do just what it looked like I was going to do. Physically, my hands were shaking a little, which only ceased because I gripped her that tightly. It felt just so goddamn mean that I was using her body like...almost like a stress toy. My fingers squeezed around her harshly just to force myself to go through with it; the ocelot victim squelched a little and gasped, eyes bulged and terrified--she was going to die, that was she was 100% certain about, and in probably the least pleasant way possible.
And with her in my hand--she was actually struggling a little that more or less amounted to rubbing down the pads of my palm, probably subconsciously, instinctually, with a primal fear she could only stifle halfway--how did I react? I'm ashamed to say it but...I hardly did. My lips didn't know what to do before the vile deed had to be done. Their shape became an uncertain series of squiggly lines and curves, as if my real message to her was "I guess I'm a little sorry," but the truth was so much more. I wanted to sit there and tell her how much I didn't want to do it, apologize profusely, though in the end somehow just make her understand that I had to do it and that I'd make it as painless as possible. But no words escaped. My brain wasn't working the way I wanted it to, and my mouth kept that awful shape. I must have looked like the cruelest person that ever existed. I just...stared into her while she was wordlessly pleading.
I brought her closer, trying a bit to avert my gaze. She was a criminal, she was a criminal, she was a criminal...I felt her hands and fingers trying to shove my lips away as they drew within reach, poking and prodding heavy-heartedly as though she already was aware doing it would accomplish nothing. I could happen to hear the hyperventilation of complete doom, the slight accidental cracking of a rib or two as my stressed grip tightened in response to her antics. She gave up and tossed her torso onto the edge of my fingers. Then finally my mouth decided to open--I can only imagine how terrifying that would have to be--and, knowing I had to do it eventually and I couldn't draw it out any longer, I set the creature on my tongue and closed up.
We were officially invisible to one another. If I still wanted to let her know that I was sorry, it was too late.
There was no movement inside aside from the awkward, terrified slipping around I guess I should have expected. It felt incredibly uncomfortable...though that primal aspect of me--there apparently was one--surged with hunger. I was fucking starving. It hit me harder than before; this was why I was here.
Those officials did have a point, however morbid of one it was. I needed to eat. The taste and feeling of meat, live or no, was something that I was innately familiar with. Obviously in today's day and age it's impossible to have a whole person hanging from your jaws, but in more vicious, primeval times, canines like myself did hunt. Animals, sure, but...that microscopic level of acceptance that beat away at my subconscious was a thing carried in my very blood. Some part of me, however small, understood the situation of having a living creature in my mouth better than I did. Unfortunately, that part was purely instinct.
The jostling around of my tongue carried her from one section of the cavity to another, and in retrospect, that probably made it seem crueler than I intended. I was tasting her--and frankly, she tasted good. That was not okay. But I didn't have a say; this was all subconscious. My left brain was trying to figure out how to end it as quickly as possible.
Swallowing right away would make it easier on me, yes. But it would not for her. Think about how long digestion takes--that's a long time for someone to die. Then recall that my metabolic speed was cut in half, and tell me that the process would somehow be more humane than injections and even most forms of suicide. It's not, plain and simple.
Some part of me realized that quickly enough. A deft movement of my tongue forced the cat's head somewhere between a canine and another tooth. I could feel a scrape of flesh...my placement must not have been perfect.
A brief moment of hesitation...then the muffled, sickening crunch as I brought my jaws down upon her. Endorphins flooded from the crushed remains through my brain and made it all satisfying in a way it shouldn't be--it was just like the feeling you normally get when eating.
The taste of blood spilled through my mouth and trickled its way down grooves every which way. I barely prevented myself from spitting it all out, but God it was awful anyway--some of the crimson bloom just dribbled out off my lips and onto the cold stone floor, becoming tiny splotches that brought the only feeling of life and color to the room. Before I could bring myself to vomit, I forced a swallow, and felt the limp figure slither down.
It...it was done. My last motion was just a shudder.
I didn't think anybody would be able to salvage any kind of good from a situation like that. It happened anyway. My first day was over.
I crossed my legs and hunched over. A finger, shaky and unwilling to do anything but drift to the ground, drew the most indistinct of patterns in one droplet of blood, smearing it into a thin layer instantly. I then curled into a feral, defeated shape and fell to the ground, a motion that created an echoing thud, and attempted to console myself into sleep.
It didn't work right away.
I thought of what the girl could have been charged with as I watched my steady breathing brush away the debris of the ground. Could it have been murder? Arson? ...Manslaughter? It didn't matter in the end, I guess. What really bothered me was that I was forced into this position for the time being, and this wasn't going to be the only time I would be forced to do it. Oh no. I believe I mentioned it's already been a month since the incident at 3-Step.
Maybe it became easier in the sense that every day, the person would look less and less friendly. Like I was making the right choice by doing this. Perhaps I was simply becoming jaded--and it's awful that I can even come to that conclusion. But I knew the truth; the truth was that I'd never know for sure. The way things were, it was going to keep happening until life sentence returned in all its golden glory, and they could focus more resources into getting me back to normal.
And yet I didn't want that. I didn't want the idea of life sentence to come back. Because I was sure that somehow, some way, some asshole legislative would label my stomach the new town prison, and give me a brand spankin' new job as warden. Maybe the whole thing was creeping into my brain and screwing me up.
Or maybe things were just as screwed up as they appeared to be on the outside.