The Livestock's Wish

My name is Xiaoyue. I share the same face as my brother—the same sharp jawline, the same dark brown eyes, the same slight dimple on the left cheek when we smile. But I never smile anymore. Not since I understood what that mirror image truly meant.

He is the eldest. I am the second. In our family, the eldest inherits the slaughterhouse, the land, the name. The second son inherits nothing but a date with the knife.

I press my palm flat against the cool glass of the floor-length mirror in my bedroom. My reflection stares back, perfect and obedient. We are identical in every way except the tiny scar above my brother’s right eyebrow—a souvenir from a childhood fall I didn’t take. If I tilted my head, let my hair fall just so, no one could tell us apart. Not that anyone would want to.

“Xiaoyue!” His voice booms from downstairs, sharp and impatient. “The pigs need hosing down. Move your useless ass.”

I flinch, then smile. He always calls me when the work is dirty. When the blood needs scrubbing from the concrete floors. When the carcasses need quartering and the flies need shooing. I am the second son. I am the hands that do the work no one wants to claim.

But I don’t mind. Every time he shouts my name, I feel seen. Every time his eyes land on me—cold, disgusted, yet undeniably focused—I feel the warmth spread through my chest like honey.

I lean closer to the mirror. My fingers trace the line of my collarbone, the soft skin below my jaw. I close my eyes and imagine it is his hand instead. His rough, calloused palm, still warm from gripping a slaughter knife, sliding down my throat, following the curve of my shoulder. I imagine his breath on my neck, his lips brushing my ear as he whispers something cruel—something only he could say.

A shiver runs through me.

“Xiaoyue!” Louder now, with the scrape of a chair pushed back.

“Coming, brother!” I call out, my voice sweet and high. I let my fingers linger on my reflection one more second, tracing the shape of my own mouth. Then I turn away, straightening my shirt—the same white cotton he wears, though mine is always a little too big, a little too clean.

I walk to the door and pause. In the mirror, my back faces me, but I know he is still there, watching from the other side of the glass. Waiting.

I want to give him everything. My hands, my legs, my heart, my throat. I want to kneel before him in the slaughterhouse yard, let him put a rope around my neck, and finally be claimed as what I was born to be.

The livestock.

I open the door and descend the stairs, my bare feet silent on the worn wood. The smell of old blood and fresh sawdust fills my nose, and I breathe it in like perfume.

The night air was cool against my skin as I slipped through the gap in the chain-link fence, the rusted wire snagging at my sleeve. I didn't care. The only thing that mattered was getting inside before he locked up for the night. The slaughterhouse loomed ahead, its corrugated metal walls stained with years of grime and something darker. Even from here, the smell hit me—copper and iron, thick and sweet, clinging to the back of my throat like a living thing.

I pressed myself against the side of the building, my heart hammering against my ribs. The fluorescent lights inside cast a sickly yellow glow through the grimy windows, and I could hear the distant thud of machinery, the hiss of hydraulics. My brother was still working. Good.

I crept along the wall until I found a small door left ajar, probably for ventilation. I slipped inside, my footsteps silent on the concrete floor. The slaughterhouse was a maze of stainless steel tables, hanging hooks, and drain channels that ran with water—and other things. The air was cold, kept low to preserve the meat, but my skin felt hot, flushed with a mixture of fear and anticipation.

I found a spot behind a stack of empty crates, crouching low, my eyes fixed on the main processing floor. And there he was—my big brother.

He stood over a steel table, his arms bare, muscles flexing under the harsh lights. He wore a blood-smeared apron over his jeans and boots, and in his hands, a long, curved knife gleamed wetly. Before him lay a female pig, hooves bound, her body limp but still twitching with residual life. Her eyes were wide and glassy, reflecting the fluorescent tubes above.

My brother worked with practiced efficiency. The knife slid into the soft tissue at the throat, a clean, precise cut. Blood welled up, dark and thick, spilling over the table and into the drain. He didn't flinch. His face was a mask of cold concentration, his jaw tight. He moved to the next one—another female, already stunned, her flank rising and falling in shallow breaths.

I watched, my breath catching in my throat. The way he handled them, the way his hands moved with such authority—it was beautiful. Terrifying. I imagined myself in that pig's place, lying on that cold steel, my body helpless under his gaze. Would he look at me the same way? That detached, professional stare? Or would there be something else? Something personal?

My fingers dug into my palms as I imagined the knife at my own throat, the warmth of my blood pooling beneath me, his hands holding me down. My heartbeat quickened, a strange warmth spreading through my chest. I wanted that. I wanted to be his—his property, his work, his meat.

The pig beneath him let out a final, gurgling sigh, and my brother wiped his knife on a rag. He looked up, scanning the room, and I ducked lower behind the crates, my pulse roaring in my ears. But he didn't see me. He turned back to his work, hoisting the carcass onto a hook with a grunt.

I stayed there, hidden, watching, until the last female was processed, until the floor was hosed down and the red water swirled into the drains. My brother pulled off his apron and tossed it into a bin. He ran a hand through his hair, his expression softening for just a moment—tired, maybe even sad.

Then he walked toward the exit, his boots echoing on the concrete. The lights clicked off one by one, plunging the room into darkness.

I remained motionless for a long time, the smell of blood still in my nostrils, my body trembling with a dark, desperate longing. In the silence, I whispered to myself, "Someday, big brother. Someday you'll see me on that table."

The heavy iron door groaned open, and I pressed myself deeper into the shadows behind the stacking crates. My brother strode in, his boots echoing on the bloodstained concrete, and trailing behind him on a leash was another one.

A sissy.

The boy was thin, with a mop of dyed blond hair and a face that tried too hard to be pretty. He wore a pink collar and a flimsy silk robe that hung off one bony shoulder, as if he expected to be admired. My brother yanked the leash, and the boy stumbled, letting out a little whimper that was meant to be cute.

It made my skin crawl.

I watched them pass, my fingers curling into the wood of the crate. My brother didn't even glance my way. He never did when he brought in new ones. He led the boy toward the holding pens, his voice flat as he recited the rules—no talking, no touching the tools, no looking him in the eye. The blond nodded eagerly, bobbing his head like a bird pecking at crumbs.

*Pathetic.*

I waited until my brother locked the pen and turned to leave. Then I stepped out.

"Brother."

He stopped. His shoulders tensed, but he didn't turn around. "Xiaoyue. Go back to your room."

I walked toward him, letting my bare feet pad softly on the cold floor. I had dressed carefully today—a loose white shirt that showed my collarbone, shorts that hugged my thighs. My hair was brushed and shining, and I'd put on the little wrist chain he'd given me last year, the one with the tiny bell. It jingled with each step.

"Why did you bring that one?" I asked, keeping my voice light. "He's not even pretty. Look at his hands—they're rough. And he's too tall. No grace at all."

My brother finally turned. His eyes were flat, unreadable, but I caught the flicker of irritation in the set of his jaw. "He's obedient. That's all I need."

"He won't last a day," I said, and I let a smile creep onto my lips. "You'll have to throw him out with the offal. And then you'll have to find another, and another, and none of them will be *right*."

"Xiaoyue." His voice dropped, a warning.

I stepped closer, close enough to smell the iron and salt on his clothes. I reached out and touched his arm, feeling the hard muscle beneath his sleeve. "Brother, why do you keep looking outside? I'm right here. I'm perfect. I've been training—I can take the pain. I've been practicing staying still for hours. I've learned to cry prettily, just like you said."

His hand shot out and caught my wrist. Not hard, but firm. The bell jingled frantically. "You don't know what you're asking."

"Then teach me." I looked up at him, letting my eyes go wide and wet. "Let me be your livestock. I'll be the best one. I'll never disappoint you."

For a long moment, he just stared at me. I saw something shift in his gaze—a crack in that cold wall. But then he let go of my wrist and stepped back.

"Clean the pens," he said. "And stop watching when I bring them in."

He walked away, his boots heavy on the floor. I stood there, the bell still trembling against my skin. From the pen, the new blond livestock let out a small, confused sound. I turned and looked at him, at his wide eyes and trembling lips.

I smiled.

"Don't worry," I said softly. "You won't be here long."

The wails would start soon enough. They always did. But I would be patient. I would wait. And one day, my brother would realize that the only creature worthy of his blade was the one who loved him enough to beg for it.

The metal door of the slaughterhouse office swung shut behind me, sealing out the distant hum of machinery and the lowing of cattle. I stood before my brother’s desk, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The air smelled of old paper, iron, and the faint, cloying sweetness of the disinfectant he used to scrub his hands raw.

He didn’t look up from the ledger he was reading. His jaw was set, the hard line of his mouth a familiar fortress. I had rehearsed this moment a hundred times in my head. I would offer myself, not as a brother, but as a thing of purpose. A piece of meat. A belonging that finally understood its place.

“Big Brother,” I whispered, my voice trembling with a mixture of fear and desperate hope. “I want you to take me. Put me with the others. I don’t want to be your brother anymore. I want to be your livestock.”

The pen in his hand stopped moving. For a long, agonizing second, the only sound was the slow drip of a faucet in the corner. Then he raised his head. His eyes, cold and gray as winter slate, met mine. There was no surprise, no anger—only a weary, clinical detachment that cut deeper than any scream.

“No,” he said. The word was flat, final. He returned his gaze to the ledger, as if I were a fly buzzing at a window.

My stomach plummeted. “Why not?” The words tore out of me, raw and jagged. I stepped closer, my fists clenched at my sides. “You take the others! You take them and you don’t think twice! Why not me? I’m not asking for much—just a hook, a knife, a place in the line. I’m worth less than the hide of a calf, but I have value, don’t I? Tell me I have value!”

He set down his pen with deliberate care, the click of it against the wood like a bone snapping. Slowly, he stood, his broad frame casting a shadow that swallowed the small room. He walked around the desk, each step measured and weighty, until he stood inches from me. I could smell the steel on his breath, the old blood in his clothes.

“You do have value,” he said, his voice a low rumble, devoid of warmth. “That’s exactly why I won’t waste you on a single day’s work. Your blood, your bones, your skin—they’re still useful to me alive. You scrub the floors, you haul the guts, you keep the books clean. That’s your station. Don’t ask for more.”

“Station?” I spat, my cheeks burning. “You make me a janitor, a clerk, a shadow. I want to be something! I want to lie on your table and feel your hands on me, even if it’s just the last thing I feel! What’s so wrong with that?”

His eyes flickered—something dark and unreadable passing through them, like a fish breaking the surface of a murky pond. Then it was gone. He turned his back to me, a dismissal so complete it felt like a physical blow.

“Stay in your place, Xiaoyue,” he said over his shoulder, and he walked to the door that led to the kill floor. He didn’t look back. The door swung open, letting in a rush of cold air and the sound of chains rattling, and then it slammed shut, leaving me alone in the dusty quiet.

I stared at the empty space where he had stood. The silence pressed in on me, thick and suffocating. My knees buckled, and I sank to the floor, my back against his desk. The first tear slid down my cheek, hot and shameful. Then another. And another.

I wrapped my arms around my knees and buried my face in the crook of my elbow. The sobs came in ugly, gasping heaves, shaking my whole body. I had offered him everything—my pride, my brotherhood, my very life—and he had refused me not out of love, but out of cold, efficient arithmetic. I was worth more to him alive, scrubbing his filth, than I was as a carcass on his line.

The world felt hollow, abandoned. I was a creature of no purpose, rejected even from the role of a sacrifice. The rough concrete bit into my knees, and I let it, because the pain was the only thing that felt real. I stayed there, crumpled on the floor of his office, while the distant machinery hummed its indifferent song, and my tears made dark, spreading stains on the gray floor.

I had never seen him touch anyone like that.

The slaughterhouse was quiet for once, the usual symphony of clanking chains and startled bleats replaced by a low, gentle hum. It took me a moment to realize the sound was coming from my brother—a soft, almost tender murmur that I had never heard directed at me. I crept closer, pressing myself against the cold iron bars of the holding pen, and my heart seized in my chest.

There she was. A female livestock with skin so pale it seemed to glow under the dim, greasy lights of the abattoir. Her hair was long and dark, falling in soft waves over her bare shoulders. She knelt on the concrete floor, her hands bound before her, and my brother was crouched beside her, one of his calloused fingers tracing a line down her cheek. He was not wearing his usual detached mask. His eyes were soft, almost reverent, as if he were admiring a work of art.

"Shh," he whispered to her. "You don't need to be afraid. I'll take care of you."

I felt the blood drain from my face, replaced by a boiling, acidic heat. *Take care of her.* He had never said those words to me. He had never touched me with that delicate, worshipful tenderness. He only grabbed me by the hair when I was too slow, or shoved me aside when I clung too tightly. And yet here he was, coddling this creature as if she were something precious.

My fingers curled around the iron bars until the rust bit into my palms. I watched as he stroked her hair, as she looked up at him with those wide, doe-like eyes, and a realization struck me like a blade. Her skin was fairer than mine. Her features were softer. She was prettier in that fragile, feminine way that I could never hope to match, no matter how much I painted my face or softened my voice.

The jealousy was a physical thing, coiling in my stomach like a nest of snakes. It hissed and writhed, demanding release.

I waited until my brother left the holding pen to fetch something from the tool shed. The moment his footsteps faded, I slipped inside. The female livestock raised her head, her expression shifting from gratitude to confusion, then to mild curiosity as I approached. She didn't know me. She didn't know what I was capable of.

"My brother seems fond of you," I said, my voice light and sweet, just as I always made it when speaking to livestock. It helped them lower their guard. "He asked me to prepare you myself. He wanted it to be special."

Her lips parted in a hesitant smile. "He's so kind," she breathed. "I've never met a man like him."

*No,* I thought venomously. *You haven't. And you never will again.*

I smiled back, pretending to adjust the rope around her wrists. As I worked, I kept my eyes fixed on her neck—on that impossibly pale, flawless skin that my brother had touched. The thought of his fingers brushing her made my stomach turn. I would scrub that touch away with blood.

It took some doing to slip into my brother's spare apron and boots, to smear a bit of blood across my cheek as he always did, and to lower the brim of his spare hat over my eyes. We shared the same build, the same narrow shoulders, and in the dim light of the slaughterhouse, I could almost be a mirror of him. But I would never be him. I knew that. The ache of that knowledge was what drove me now.

I fetched the long, curved blade from the wall, the one he used for the ones he truly cared about. It was a gesture of twisted affection—quick, clean, almost painless. I ran my thumb along its edge, feeling the sharp promise of it, and then I walked back to the holding pen.

She was waiting for me, still kneeling, still trusting.

"My brother sends his regards," I said, pitching my voice low to mimic his gruff tone. Then I grabbed her by the hair, yanked her head back, and drew the blade across her throat in a single, fluid motion.

The blood came hot and fast, splattering across my apron, my face, my lips. I tasted copper and salt. Her eyes widened in shock and betrayal, but the sound that escaped her was only a wet gurgle. I held her there, watching the light fade, feeling the life drain out of her through the gaping wound.

When it was done, I let her body slump to the floor. I stood over her, breathing hard, and I laughed. It was a small, broken sound that echoed off the cold concrete walls. Her skin was still pale, but now it was the pale of death, not the pale of beauty. I had taken that from her. I had taken everything she might have been to my brother.

I heard footsteps behind me. I did not turn around.

"Xiaoyue," my brother said, his voice flat and icy. "What have you done?"

I smiled, still facing the corpse. "I helped you take care of her, brother. Just like you asked."

There was a long silence. I could feel his gaze boring into the back of my head, heavy with something I couldn't quite name. Anger, perhaps. Or disgust. Or maybe, buried deep beneath it all, a sliver of recognition.

But he said nothing more. He only turned and walked away, leaving me alone with the cooling body and the fading warmth of her blood on my lips. I would have to do better next time, I thought. I would have to make him see that I was the only livestock worth his touch.

I slipped my arms into the sleeves of his work uniform. The coarse fabric smelled of iron and sweat, a scent that clung to my brother like a second skin. The sleeves hung past my wrists, so I rolled them up twice, just the way he did. I adjusted the collar, tugged the front straight, and stared at my reflection in the dusty mirror propped against the wall.

My face was too soft. Too smooth. I practiced narrowing my eyes, letting my mouth fall into a flat, unimpressed line. "Come," I said, low and gruff. Not quite right. I tried again, dropping my voice until it scraped against my throat. "Come. Now."

Better.

I found his boots by the door. They were too big, but I stuffed the toes with rags and laced them tight. The weight of them, the way they made me stand taller—it felt like wearing a piece of him. I breathed in, slow, and let the mask settle over my skin.

He had left an hour ago for the supply run. I had watched his truck disappear down the gravel road, counting the seconds until the dust settled. Now the pen was mine.

The door to the livestock shed groaned when I pushed it open. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of hay and fear. The female livestock huddled in the far corner, her thin arms wrapped around her knees. She looked up when I stepped in, and her eyes widened.

I said nothing. I stood as my brother would stand—feet apart, hands loose at my sides, head tilted just slightly to the right. The silence stretched until she began to tremble.

"You." I let the word fall flat. "Come here."

She shook her head, a quick, jerky motion. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

My heart began to pound. Not with anger—with something bright and hot and terrible. *This is what he feels,* I thought. *This is what it means to hold the leash.*

I took a step forward. She scrambled backward, pressing herself into the wall.

"I said come here." I pitched my voice lower, rougher. A perfect imitation. "Don't make me repeat myself."

She cried out as I grabbed her arm—a small, broken sound that thrilled me in a way I didn't want to examine. Her skin was cold and clammy beneath my fingers. She tried to pull away, her bare feet scraping against the concrete, but I held tight.

"Please," she whispered. "Please, I'll be good, I'll be—"

"Shut up."

I dragged her out of the pen. She stumbled, sobbed, clawed at my hand, but I didn't let go. Her terror was a current running through me, electric and addictive. This was power. This was what my brother tasted every day. And now I had stolen a sip.

I led her down the corridor, past the empty stalls, past the hooks and chains that dangled from the ceiling like metal vines. She wept the whole way, her knees buckling, her breath hitching in wet gasps.

And I smiled.

Because in that moment, wearing his clothes, speaking his words, feeling the struggle of a living thing beneath my grip—I was him. I was the cold, the ruthless, the beloved.

And for the first time, I understood why he never wanted me to become livestock.

He wanted me to become this.

The metal hook swung gently from the overhead rail, casting a slim shadow across the concrete floor. Xiaoyue watched it for a moment, then turned his gaze to the woman tied to the post. She was young, maybe twenty, with dark hair plastered to her forehead and wide, terrified eyes. Her mouth was gagged, but a thin, wet sound leaked through the cloth—a whimper, or a plea. It hardly mattered.

Big Brother had stepped out to check the refrigeration unit. He’d been gone three minutes. The knife lay on the stainless-steel table beside the drain, still slick with the previous kill’s blood.

Xiaoyue’s heart beat quick and shallow as he picked it up. The handle was warm. He rolled his wrist, testing the weight. This was what Big Brother did. This was how he ended them—one stroke, clean and certain, across the throat. No wasted motion, no hesitation. A gift of efficiency.

The woman’s eyes tracked the blade. Her body tensed, straining against the ropes.

“Shh,” Xiaoyue said softly, smiling. “It will be quick. I learned from the best.”

He stepped behind her, placed his left hand on her forehead to tilt her chin up, just as he’d seen Big Brother do a hundred times. Her skin was clammy. He pressed the edge of the knife against the side of her neck, finding the spot where the pulse beat strongest, where the carotid ran shallow.

Then he drew the blade across in a single, firm arc.

The sound was wet and rough, like tearing silk. The woman made a choked gasp that turned into a gurgle. Blood pulsed out in a dark, arterial sheet, not spraying but flowing, fast and heavy, splashing onto the floor and spattering across Xiaoyue’s face. Warm. Thick. It dripped from his chin and clung to his eyelashes.

He blinked, and the world turned red-edged.

For a moment he stood still, the knife dangling from his fingers, watching the woman’s body shudder through its last seconds. Her hands twitched. Her legs kicked once. Then she was still, head lolling forward, ropes holding her upright.

Xiaoyue raised a hand to his cheek and touched the wetness. He brought his fingers to his lips and tasted.

Copper. Salt. Something deeper, almost sweet. Like raw meat left too long in the sun, but purer. It sang on his tongue. He licked his lips, then his fingers, one by one, savoring the iron tang.

*This is what Big Brother tastes every day,* he thought. *This is the flavor of his work, his strength, his love.*

A warmth spread through his chest, loosening something tight and aching. He had done it. He had mimicked the exact movement, the exact angle. Not a single tremor. Not a single mistake.

The body before him was proof.

He set the knife down on the table, aligning it carefully with the edge, blade pointing away. Then he moved to stand beside the corpse. He placed his hands behind his back, straightening his posture, and faced the door.

Big Brother would return soon. He would see the blood on Xiaoyue’s face, the empty eyes of the woman, the knife placed just so. He would know.

Xiaoyue’s lips curved into a small, private smile. He waited, breath steady, heart calm.

The floor was pooling red around his shoes. He didn’t look down. He kept his eyes on the door, on the spot where Big Brother would appear, and he let the silence settle around him like a shroud.

The heavy steel door to the slaughterhouse groaned open, and the clatter of boots on concrete announced my brother’s return. I was still on my knees in the center of the kill floor, the cold seeping through my thin trousers, my wrists raw from the rope I had tied around them earlier. The air was thick with iron and salt, the faint hum of the overhead lights buzzing like flies over a carcass. I had made myself ready—stripped to the waist, skin pebbled with gooseflesh, a thick leather collar buckled around my throat. I wanted him to see what I had become.

He stopped in the doorway. His silhouette filled the frame, broad-shouldered and still in his blood-spattered apron. The cleaver hung from his right hand, blade glinting with the day’s work. For a long moment he said nothing, only stared at the scene I had arranged: the canvas spread beneath me, the ropes coiled beside the drain, the wooden chopping block scrubbed clean and waiting.

Then his jaw tightened. A vein pulsed in his temple.

“What the hell is this?” His voice came low, a growl that rattled in his chest.

I tilted my head, letting the collar creak. “Welcome home, Big Brother.”

He crossed the floor in three strides, boots splashing through a shallow puddle of water and old blood. His free hand shot out and tangled in my hair—not gently, not like before. He yanked, and the pain bloomed hot across my scalp. I gasped, but the sound came out wrong, threaded with a laugh.

“You think this is a joke?” He dragged me sideways, my knees scraping against the concrete. I didn’t resist. I let my body go slack, let him pull me like a sack of offal toward the block. The back of my head cracked against its edge, and stars burst behind my eyes.

“Look at you.” He shoved my face against the worn wood, the grain rough against my cheek. His breath came ragged. “Look at what you’ve done to yourself. To this place.”

I turned my head just enough to see him. The cleaver was still in his hand, his knuckles white. His eyes were wild, hurt and rage bleeding into each other like two shades of the same cut. He wanted to break something. He wanted to break me.

I smiled. I couldn’t help it.

“Brother,” I said, the word honey-sweet on my tongue, “butcher me.”

The sound that left him was not a word. It was a wound. He raised the cleaver high, the blade catching the light, and for a heartbeat I thought he would do it. I thought he would bring it down and split me open, and then I would finally be his—marked, owned, meat laid bare on his block.

But his hand trembled. The cleaver hung in the air, wavering.

“You’re sick,” he whispered, and the rage cracked. Something else bled through. “You’re fucking sick.”

I reached up with bound wrists and touched his knuckles. “Then cure me, Big Brother. Cut the sickness out.”

He dropped the cleaver. It clattered against the concrete, the sound flat and final. Then he shoved away from me, stumbling back, one hand pressed to his mouth. He stood there in the dim light of the slaughterhouse, my brother, the man who could gut a steer without blinking, and he looked at me like I was the one thing he could not bring himself to slaughter.

I lay across the block, collar tight, and I waited.