The Death of a Goat
“My brother was killed like a goat,” Boi said, leaning up against the crumbling concrete wall of the old campsite.
“What?” I said.
“That’s why I didn’t watch when they killed the goat today. My brother was killed like a goat.”
“That’s awful, Boi. I’m so sorry.”
I leaned against the wall next to him, my mind racing with doubts—about if I could begin to understand his situation, if I could appropriately respond, and then, just as quickly, if Boi was telling the truth, if his brother really was beheaded with a knife.
I had not noticed that Boi hadn’t watched the slaughter of the goat with the rest of us that day. Yet he felt as if he should explain himself, as if the absence of his presence was abnormal and required justification.
“Did you watch?” He asked me inquisitively, but with no judgment behind the question.
Read the rest of the story at Whirlwind Magazine.
gina tomaine 