Do you really fucking care? That was what I wanted to ask, but instead, I tried another one of my new emotional skits. I leaned against the fridge, trying to act like an annoyed teenager.

“He wants to sort the market pigs tonight. We will be a few hours yet,” I grumbled and rolled my eyes.

My mother wiped her hands on her apron and picked up the very same knife that had landed me in therapy. I watched her wrist movements and how easily the blade slid through the potato. Skin was much easier to slice. My nostrils flared as the image of my mother bleeding out all over that cutting board and then slipping to the floor with her eyes glassy like a rag doll came to mind. My cock stirred, and I had to look away before I became any more aroused.

“Please don’t lean up against anything until you’ve had a shower. You’re completely covered in chaff and dirt.” She pointed the knife at me, and my cock twinged again.

I sucked in a deep breath as I wondered what it would feel like to lunge forward and force her hands to stab herself. Would she look shocked? Would she scream? Would she beg for me not to kill her?

“Fine. I better go before dad comes looking for me.”

I grabbed a pair of apples from the bowl on the table and let the screen door slam on the way out. I smiled wide as my mother yelled at me not to slam the door. Small things were sometimes just as amusing as the killing itself.

At one time, we only had a couple of the stinky pigs, but father wanted to increase that number and make it a larger part of the farm, so we were currently up to a hundred animals, all of them in different stages of growth. Like I didn’t have enough chores to do between the chickens, cows, and cash crops. Now I had to deal with more pigs.

As I walked through the outer part of the barn, I could hear the clanging of the metal gates my father was setting up. He arranged them to make the necessary run to herd the two-hundred-pound animals to lead them into the slaughter truck. Reaching the edge of the first set of pens, I spotted my father in with the forty or so market pigs and leaned against the gate.

“I have your water and apple,” I called out and held them up.

“Thanks.” My father took a step in my direction and paused, his face contorting into a grimace of pain.