gentle abattoire
by Katie Goto-Švić
They look at you with pity in their eyes.
Be gentle, be sensitive.
The people who always thought you’d go far, so they say now, but were never so vocal about it at the time.
It was in their eyes, though; they thought you’d go far.
They didn’t think it ever needed to be said.
You’re gonna go far, kid.
But now…with gentle pity, they tell you how well you’ve done just getting out of bed this morning.
Burnout.
You’ve worked so hard over these past months. You even got yourself a little part-time job two days a week.
That’s brilliant.
That’s the bar.
The new bar.
Don’t worry; no one will remember the old bar. You’ll never live down the crash and fall.
This illness, this invalidity, is your identity now.
Have you taken your pills?
Are you feeling stable?
Have you let the doctor strip you down so he can get you up on the scale and record your weight to make sure you’re still eating properly?
Your life managed in a chart, in a diary.
Each head of cattle gets weighed before it’s drugged, then slaughtered humanely.
The modern way.
You can’t remember how you used to do all the things you used to. The things you thought were mundane at the time. The things you didn’t even think about, unless you thought of them as preliminary phases leading to something greater.
A bright future.
Now you’re nervous about even getting behind the wheel of a car.
You hear the sound of the school bus rolling down the road, past the window. You stare at it through a crack in the blinds.
It’s the same school bus you used to ride when you were a kid. When you and the world were so much younger, and there was so much for you to lose.
You wonder what kid-you on that bus would think of now-you, finally escaping the bed with an aching back and a thumping head, only just awake maybe an hour before your old school day would have ended.
Imagine sleeping through an entire school day…
The perspective is frightening. But you can’t get up.
You want to at least make some headway tomorrow by being a normal adult and driving your own car. Besides, it’s usually the same Uber driver who turns up to take you to medical appointments. It’s awkward, embarrassing. Not that he’s said anything, but he’s definitely worked out your routine, your life.
Don’t worry.
Don’t compare yourself to others.
The mud still hasn’t washed completely off your face since you fell and face-planted.
But you’re doing so well.
Photo of Katie Goto-Švić
BIO: Katie Goto-Švić is a Croatian-Australian writer living in Japan. She studied international relations, economics, and Japanese at the University of Sydney and works in business development. She is currently studying engineering. Her short fiction and prose has appeared in L'Esprit Literary Review, Santa Clara Review, Barzakh, The Manifest-Station, BarBar, Grande Dame, Unlimited Literature Magazine, New Contexts: 3 (Coverstory Books), amongst others. Her crime novel, Neon Ghosts, placed 3rd in The Plaza Prizes 2024 First Chapters Award.