⚠️ Content Note:
This story contains personal memories involving children, animals, and emotionally difficult experiences. Please read with care and awareness, especially if you are sensitive to themes of childhood trauma or animal death.
There was once a woman – a mother of two, a boy and a girl – who loved telling bedtime stories. Stories from her past. And during every celebration – birthdays, New Year’s Eve, holiday dinners – after the food was eaten and the laughter quieted down, she’d always end the evening with one of those nostalgic tales.
Her favourite story? The one about how her children never had ordinary pets like cats or dogs. Instead, thanks to their stepfather, they had something different – more special, she claimed. He would bring home animals from a small countryside settlement far from the city: a rabbit, a chicken, even a live carp.
She would always recall with a smile how much joy the children had playing with these creatures. How much energy, how much laughter, how much love filled the house when a new “pet” arrived. She never told the end of the story. No one ever asked. Everyone just smiled, raised a glass, and moved on.
But tonight, I will finish the story.
Not with blame. Not out of anger. Only for the sake of truth – and perhaps for those who work with children, and care about their development. Maybe it will help someone one day.
The rabbit always lived the longest. Sometimes even a whole week. That was enough time for the children to give him a name, to fall in love, to form a bond. He became a part of the family.
The chicken, though messier, still lived long enough for the same bond to form. She would get a name too. She would be held, talked to, even dressed up. Treated like a pet.
Even the carp – though he never left the bathtub – captured the children’s imagination. They’d play with him for hours, watching him swim in circles. Maybe he didn’t get a name. But there was still sympathy, curiosity. A connection.
What the woman never mentioned was how the story really ended. She would stop before the kitchen door.
But I was there. I remember.
The children would scream. Cry. Plead. “Please don’t hurt him!” They would beg to spare their beloved animal. But their cries didn’t matter.
The carp? He was struck on the head – once, twice, sometimes more – before finally going still. The children learned how long it takes for a large fish to die.
The chicken? Her head was twisted in a single sharp motion. Over in a second.
The rabbit? He was held upside down by his back legs, his throat cut over a bucket. The blood poured while his body kept twitching. When he stopped moving, his skin was pulled off. His organs removed. Then he was ready for the oven. For the celebration.
This is the story she always stopped short of telling. The story behind the smile.
I’m not telling it for shock value. I’m telling it because I never got the chance to speak before. And maybe, by speaking now, it will help make sense of something – inside me, or in someone else.
“In what lies power, brother? Is it in money?… I believe real strength lies in truth.”
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