Humanity

It didn't take long for me to realise that the uniforms the children wore were school uniforms—typical, tidy, and utterly out of place in this grim scenario.

They moved with a mix of hesitancy and resolve, their faces painted with confusion, but also something else—perhaps determination, or perhaps fear.

I couldn't quite decipher their intentions. Were they like the boys? Or were their goals different, more genuine, or perhaps more naive?

"This is... horrible," one of the children muttered, the words heavy with disgust, as his eyes darted around the room, scanning the cages and the madness they contained.

"We need to free them all," another one declared, his voice filled with a strange, fierce determination. His hands trembled, but his resolve remained clear, his gaze unwavering as he moved towards the first cage.

For the briefest instant, something flickered deep within me. Hope. It was a dangerous thing, wasn't it? But in that fleeting moment, it felt like the only thing worth holding onto.

Could I be free? Could this nightmare finally come to an end? The thought clung to me like a thread of light in a darkened room.

But then, almost immediately, I banished it. Hope was a fool's desire. It was the illusion of something better, a fleeting mirage that always led to disappointment. Hope separated the mind from reality, leading creatures astray, away from the brutal truth. It wasn't real. This wasn't real.

And yet, my eyes couldn't help but follow the children, my heart pounding in my chest. They began their work, unlocking the cages one by one. The screeching of metal on metal filled the room, and as each door swung open, chaos exploded.

The animals inside surged forward like a tidal wave. They stumbled over each other in their frantic rush, their limbs awkward and uncoordinated, as though they'd never run free before.

It was wild, frantic.

They ran—no, they floundered—bodies crashing into walls, tripping over their own legs, leaping and spinning in every direction. There was no joy in their freedom, no grace. It was as though they had forgotten what it meant to be free. There was only desperation, instinct.

The animals didn't know what to do with their newfound release. They were like wild things, untamed and without purpose, flailing through the air with no rhyme or reason.

The smell of sweat, fur, and blood lingered in the room, thick in the air, mingling with the smell of fear. And then, it happened.

The animals—every last one of them—turned.

The children had released them, yes, but it wasn't gratitude that filled their eyes. It wasn't relief. No. The animals, in their panic, saw only humans. And humans, to them, meant pain.

Humans had been the cause of their suffering, their imprisonment, their pain.

The animals attacked.

It wasn't just the snapping of jaws, the claws ripping through flesh. It was frenzied. The children screamed, their voices raw and high-pitched, but it didn't matter. The animals were on them before they could even take a step. Fear painted their faces as they stumbled back, trying to retreat, but it was already too late.

The first child fell, crashing to the ground with a sickening thud. The others froze for a split second—a split second too long. The beasts swarmed over them, the sound of teeth sinking into soft flesh filling the air, the air thick with the iron tang of blood.

It was chaos. Horrific, brutal chaos.

The animals tore into their saviours with wild abandon, slashing with claws, snapping with teeth. The children screamed, but their screams were cut short, smothered by the growls and shrieks of the animals. It was like something out of a nightmare—a grotesque parody of salvation turned to madness.

I watched as they tried to run, stumbling over their own feet, their eyes wide with terror, their hands reaching out for safety that wasn't there. Fear held them in place, each movement slower, more desperate than the last. Their faces were twisted in shock, in disbelief. They couldn't comprehend the shift, couldn't understand why the animals they sought to save now tore at them with savage hunger.

One child fell. Then another. And another. The once lively room became a slaughterhouse. The floor became slick with blood, the crimson liquid spreading like a tide, consuming everything in its path. The bodies of the children were torn apart, desecrated beyond recognition. Their once-pristine uniforms, once symbols of innocence, were now soaked, dripping with the viciousness from monsters.

The animals didn't stop. They didn't hesitate. They kept tearing, biting, shredding, until the children were no more. No bodies remained intact—just mangled, mutilated remnants, their torn faces locked in expressions of pure, unadulterated horror.

The silence that followed was suffocating. It wasn't a calm silence. It was the kind of silence that comes after a storm, when the air is still, heavy with the weight of what has just transpired. I could hear the uneven, erratic breathing of the few remaining animals as they recovered from their frenzied attack, their bodies twitching and jerking like wounded creatures.

Suddenly the large wooden door was flung open and in a stampede the animals left going to their freedom.

Or just being enslaved by their basic instincts.

Then, a new sound. The unmistakable sound of footsteps. Boots hitting the ground with steady, deliberate thuds, growing closer, echoing off the walls of the room.

The original students—the ones who had held me captive—appeared, their expressions different now. Their faces were flushed, eyes wide with a disturbing gleam of triumph, and their school uniforms were slightly dishevelled. The air around them felt… wrong.

And then they began to laugh.

It was not the laughter of joy, not the playful laughter of children. It was something else—something twisted, chaotic, full of dark amusement. It bubbled up from them like some sick, primal force, rising louder with every passing second.

"I knew it would work," the blonde-haired boy chuckled, a manic gleam in his eyes, as he stepped closer to one of the disfigured corpses, a sick smile curling on his lips.

"Yeah, well, my father's been on my case about responsibility," said the third boy, his voice dripping with sarcasm, as he wiped his hands on his uniform. "Guess I finally understand the weight of that responsibility."

The boy with the scar was quiet. Too quiet. He just watched, his expression hardening as he surveyed the carnage, the flicker of something darker moving across his face. "It's time we moved on to something… bigger," he muttered, almost to himself.

The blonde-haired boy kicked one of the fallen bodies—his laugh growing louder, wilder, until it became something manic, something unsettling. "This is what you deserve," he shouted, his voice shrill, as he kicked again. "This is what you fucking deserve."

The scarred boy's gaze darkened, his patience snapping. "Stop. Focus. We're done here. It's over."

The blonde-haired boy shot him a venomous glare but didn't argue. The three of them went to work again, this time severing the fingers from the dead children's hands with a disturbing precision. The grotesque pile grew as they collected their trophies, moving from one mangled body to the next with mechanical detachment.

They used the fingers to touch the cages and other objects in the room, performing some ritual that felt utterly alien to me. Hours passed, and I watched as the boys worked, their movements slow and deliberate, as though this twisted act was somehow... necessary.

"This is enough," the scarred boy—Miles—finally said, his voice cold and final.

"Finally," the blonde-haired boy grunted, his face pale with exhaustion, his eyes never leaving the pile of bodies.

The third boy began to gather the severed fingers, stuffing them into the mouths of the few still-caged animals with unnerving precision. Once finished the boys unlocked the cages of the few animals that remained.

The animals reacted immediately, their instincts kicking in. They lunged, snapping at the air, but the boys were ready, baseball bats raised.

With a sickening thud, the bats came down, and the air was filled with the sound of cracking bones, of the sickening squelch of flesh being torn apart.

The animals scattered, fleeing in every direction, their instincts guiding them to the nearest exit, to the closest escape. And the boys, for all their efforts, stood still, watching as the chaos unfolded. Their faces were blank, their eyes empty.

The scarred boy, Miles, sighed deeply and walked over to the fire pit in the centre of the room. The other two boys followed. One by one, they tossed the gloves they'd worn into the fire, watching as the flames consumed them, the burning fabric curling and blackening in the heat. The crackling fire cast eerie shadows across their faces, and for a moment, I could almost hear the flicker of something melancholic in the silence.

Miles clapped his hands together, wiping the ash from his palms. "Alright," he said, voice flat.

"Who's calling the police?"

The blonde-haired boy sneered. "It was your plan, Miles. You do it."

Miles just sighed again. "Fine."

***

I could hear the distant wail of sirens, the sounds of police approaching. I could hear the crunch of tires on gravel as they pulled up outside.

A man and a woman in uniform stepped out, their faces blank as they surveyed the scene.

"Miles?" the male officer asked, his voice laden with familiarity.

Miles began to sob, his face contorting with fake grief. "It's horrible. It's horrible," he repeated, clinging to the officer's arm as though seeking comfort.

The male officer wrapped a comforting arm around him, muttering something about the horrors of war, or whatever he had been briefed on. But the female officer was watching the other boys with suspicion.

"We were called here because of the death of students," she said sharply, her gaze flicking over them.

The two boys nodded, their faces an impassive mask of sorrow. But there was nothing genuine about it.

"We saw… animals," the blonde-haired boy began, his voice stiff. "A lot of them. Fifteen, maybe twenty. They were running from this direction, and as you can imagine, it seemed... off. So we came to check it out…"

The female officer interrupted, her eyes narrowing. "Why didn't you call us immediately?"

The blonde-haired boy's eyes flashed with irritation. He clenched his jaw, his body stiffening with barely contained anger. "We didn't want to waste your time on something that might have been nothing," he said through clenched teeth. "And besides, we were curious."

His voice was starting to break, his smile faltering as something darker rose to the surface. "Are you accusing me of something? Because if you are, just say it. I've already had a really bad day, and now some incompetent officer keeps interrupting me."

The officer's nostrils flared, veins bulging on her forehead. She was seething with anger, but before she could say anything, the male officer stepped in.

"Enough, Chloe," he said firmly. "These boys have just seen something traumatic. Show some class. You can question them later."

The female officer opened her mouth to respond, but then her eyes caught something—something behind the male officer, something that made her freeze. Behind him, Miles—his face a perfect mask of sorrow—was sneering. His true nature had slipped for just a moment before he forced it back into place, but it was enough. The officer saw it, but before she could do anything, Miles had already returned to his façade, tears streaming down his face once more.

The male officer turned around, oblivious. He sighed deeply, looking between the three boys and the scene around them. "Let's just get this over with."

The female officer just looked down slightly, realising that there wasn't much she could do. She wasn't high ranked, nor was there any clear evidence of the boys acting maliciously.

All she could do was sigh and lament internally about the inequality of life.