"Out to Pasture", Alejandra Torruellas '23

I live in a place where I am a king, even a god to some. Whatever I ask for becomes granted to me like a right. It is a right. Along with my brother, we are the sole rulers of this small pasture. We have cultivated a following around the belief that we are monarchs, gods, kings, the most deserving. We somehow convinced them into believing that sacrificing themselves is the best thing they could ever achieve with their lives. We got an insignificant piece of ribbon and gave it inexpressible honor. The black ribbon goes around the house of whoever sacrificed themselves most recently. They think it creates a signal for those worthy and pure. They think that ribbon is unbreakable spiritual protection. They think that having that ribbon around their house will get them into the best afterlife. One we are not sure exists.

We found an abandoned building and made it into an altar. An altar dedicated to ancestors that have never existed. Ancestors which are supposed to bring them prosperity. Ancestors that have sacrificed themselves as well and gotten granted salvation. Ancestors they strive daily to be. This old building is littered with windows and writings we have adopted to be our own. Windows that used to mark all the generations before them. Writings supposed to highlight ancient stories of those spiritually rescued, just for walking inside this building and giving their lives for their gods. They hustle in heaps in hopes to get inside to be granted ultimate salvation.

I kind of feel bad for all of them. They think the world of us, and we’ve made them believe it. They think that dying for us will do them good, purify their soul when all it will do is fill our stomachs. When it comes to it, any one of them will throw themselves at our feet if it means it’ll earn them a glance. They believe us to be like gods when we couldn’t be the farthest thing from it. They put their lives in ruin if it means that they will satisfy us. That’s the worst thing in the world, to live for someone else. No other aspirations other than the possibility of being useful to a creature of greed. Greed, what a funny thing. When the longing for something becomes that of bad taste. As selfless as they all are for thinking us royalty, one could call them greedy. Their whole lives devoted to pleasing us in hopes of getting chosen as the sacrifice, so their then empty house can pridefully wear the ribbon of honor. The highest honor is given. Given only to those unavailable to experience it. A symbol and banner to simply say that you wasted your life for two monarchs who would never bother to learn your name. Who recognize that knowing your name would make looking at the past of you on a plate quite unbearable.