by Sarah Gerard
John keeps his eyes on the ground. The officer smiles at him and then walks to the front of the car and looks in the open door. He reaches inside and picks up something.
Ativan. You got a prescription for this?
Yep.
Can I see it?
It’s in the backseat.
He waits while John opens the back door and rummages around in his duffel bag. John pulls out the box. The officer reads it closely and hands it back to him.
Why don’t you go on home now.
He takes a long last look inside the car.
And maybe spend the next few nights there.
Greetings from the other side of the killing field.
We, Students for the Liberation of Animals, call for a non-violent revolution against all governments and organizations that aid or support the illegitimate terrorist state of the meat, dairy, and vivisection industries.
We are a decentralized group of autonomous cells. Any and all non-violent actions taken against these industries may be claimed as actions of Students for the Liberation of Animals.
From this day forward, we refuse to perpetuate or tolerate the killing of millions of innocent livestock, victims of vivisection, and our brothers and sisters of the sea. We will use any and all means of non-violent direct action including civil disobedience, the building of checkpoints at slaughterhouse and laboratory entrances, online insurrection, arson, vandalism, infiltration, and leafleting. We will no longer stand by and witness the needless slaughter of our brothers and sisters.
The time for revolution is now. We want the world to know that it is not the ALF, SHAC, ELF, Earth First!, or Students for the Liberation of Animals who are the terrorists but rather the capitalist state that forces us into roles as passive consumers dependent on factory farms and vivisection laboratories. Comrades, you grow fat, dumb, and indifferent on our couches and in our shopping malls while our brothers and sisters suffer and die at the hands of slaughterers and murderers in lab coats. Hear the cries of our brothers and sisters.
Animals and human animals alike have been forced into a position of desperate self-defense. Chickens endure painful debeakings and lifetimes of confinement in battery cages. They are forced to lay over twice as many eggs as is natural per year, molt and suffer constant abrasion against cages and pecking from other prisoners, only to be sent down the shaft and ground alive for Campbell’s.
Cows are confined, constantly impregnated, milked dry, and fed a battery of hormones and antibiotics that harm them and their human consumers, suffer painful infections in their udders, and then are sent to slaughter when they’re no longer useful for pouring milk over our Cocoa Puffs.
Monkeys and dogs cry from behind the bars of their prison cells, bleeding from the ears.
We are no longer deaf to their suffering cries.
We stand up in arms in their defense.
It’s time for Americans of all backgrounds to protest and bring to justice those who oppress their brothers and sisters. Let us bring the struggle for the liberation of animals to the streets. Our numbers may be small, but we have passion and the dedication to use all our means to end this genocide.
We will bring freedom to our brothers and sisters by any means necessary.
We will end their suffering.
In solidarity,
Students for the Liberation of Animals
I’ve been in the university library since seven o’clock this morning. It’s almost eleven o’clock at night. I have eaten two apples and five half-sticks of celery, a handful of almonds, and time. I have opened Adderall capsules and dropped them into water. I’ve crushed lines with my university ID and snorted them off the study desk. I’ve taken breaks to buy coffee from the food court, and have tried to take two ten-minute naps with my head on my arms, but failed. I hear everything around me. I’m alert and buzzing. My skin shakes on my flesh, I’m so cold.
I’ve chosen the coldest, brightest corner in which to confine myself.
I’m studying for a test of the evolution of cataclysmic variable stars. I glow faintly but burn no fuel. I accrete.
The smell of aging, moldy books in the cold reminds me of withered flesh, and of the passive drift of meteorites into orbit before they’re burned away.
John has asked me to make the Facebook page for Students for the Liberation of Animals. He says that I use my words in a way he can’t. I rewrote the manifesto.
Really, it’s just that I’m not sleeping.
I didn’t say that.
I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry.
I’ll do it.
I study for class and work on the Facebook page and go back to studying for class. I focus intensely but can’t seem to focus for long. I go back and forth. I can’t settle.
Every time I move my head in a certain way, the hunger gets worse and I’m dizzy. I pull my hair so I don’t feel my head throb. I bite my nails.
John will fly to Long Island next week. We’re planning an action, the first we’ll post on the SLA Facebook page. Of course, we’ll include pictures. We’ll say it was conducted by an independent cell that then contacted us.
Cataclysmic variables are binary systems in which the component stars seem to pulse.
They increase in brightness then rapidly drop back down to a state of quiescence.
I upload a user picture: a fist that clutches a freed rabbit aloft. I write, We, Students for the Liberation of Animals, call for a revolution.
I upload another user picture: a man in a black ski mask cradling a duck before a burning building. Liberation by any means necessary!
Cataclysmic variables require two stars: a white dwarf primary and a mass-transferring secondary. The white dwarf accretes matter from its companion.
I write a description: Decentralized, independently operating units committed to liberating animals by any non-violent means. We act anonymously. We are your sons, your daughters, your soccer coaches, your neighbors. We are in your living room.
If accretion exceeds the critical mass of the white dwarf, it will ignite runaway carbon fusion.
I drink the Adderall water. I snort a line.
I eat a baby carrot. I chew it longer than I need to. I chew another, but spit most of it into a napkin.
I tell myself I shouldn’t have done that.
I make a gallery of suffering animals with captions: Piglets are snatched from their mothers at only a few weeks old.
When the sows are spent, they, too, are sent to slaughter.
The average life of a factory cow is five years. In nature, she can live as long as 20 years.
A suffering chimpanzee undergoing pharmaceutical tests at Huntingdon Life Sciences.
Huntingdon Life Sciences has repeatedly been found to cut corners and use unnecessarily cruel tactics.
An SLA member goes undercover at Huntingdon Life Sciences and lets these beagle puppies out of their cages for a few minutes of play.
The runaway carbon fusion triggers a Type-1a supernova explosion, completely destroying the white dwarf star.
Sponsored ads to the right of the page tell me about deals at Walgreens, Mac Cosmetics, United Airlines, and Forever 21.
I print the manifesto on a library printer. I stand and pack my laptop into my bag. I walk past the printers to the bathroom.
I look in the full-length mirror and pee and look in the full-length mirror again sideways, splash my face with water, and leave, watching myself in the mirror.
I walk past the information desk and make eye contact with the third undergraduate student I’ve seen here today. His face says that even he thinks I’ve been here too long.
Midterms, I say.
He nods.
I leave a stack of the manifesto on the table of university flyers near him. He doesn’t notice.
I sit back down at the study desk and open my computer. I feel a wave of exhaustion overtake me in a cold, white swell. I rub my eyes. I focus on the Adderall buzz. I crack my fingers and cough. The exhaustion pass
es.
I make a note in Facebook and copy and paste the manifesto from John’s email. I post it.
No one has liked the page, yet.
Wait until they see the first photos of SLA action. That’ll get attention.
I fold my arms and put my head down.
They are also called eruptive variables.
Hi, Mom.
I’m okay. John flew in last night.
He’s taking a class in the city. Starting next week.
Staying with me, of course.
I’m okay. Very tired.
Spring semester just ended.
I haven’t seen it, yet, but all A’s, I’m sure.
I got a job at Starbucks, starting this weekend.
I can walk there. Save on gas money.
I’m not going to drink the milk.
Not just health reasons anymore. That’s still part of it.
I’ve been reading about…
Yes, ethical reasons. First.
I’m happy to send you some books.
I could maybe come home sometime in August. I don’t know.
It depends on my schedule.
I miss you, too.
I’m tired.
I would tell you.
I’m just going through some stuff.
Mom, stop. I don’t do drugs.
John doesn’t work. It’s complicated. He’s never had to work.
His parents.
You can call me, too, you know.
Mom, what’s the most important decision you’ve ever made?
I’m feeling lost. I feel like I haven’t done anything important with my life.
Graduation isn’t enough.
I need to focus my energy.
I don’t know what I care about.
I don’t like myself.
I’m stuck in some kind of cycle.
I’m not happy.
I’m really depressed.
I don’t know what to do.
I feel like I’m floating in space.
All alone.
Do you ever feel alone?
I’m scared.
I have to go.
I’ll be fine.
I’ll tell you.
Of course, Mom.
I always stay out of trouble.
At five o’clock, I walk to Starbucks and watch the sunrise while I prepare coffee. Venus hovers above the blue horizon and dawn breaks over the brushed metal, turning everything silver. I am light as fog.
I fill my first free cup of coffee just before I open the doors. My coworker arrives late but I don’t say anything about it. She doesn’t say anything to me. We move in circles around each other, getting ready for the morning rush. It took me twenty minutes to walk here and I was glad for the exercise, but by the time we open, I feel cranky.
I stay on the espresso machine while my coworker stays on the register. I enjoy the rhythmic, repetitive nature of the work. My hands move in automatic rhythms and I chat with customers across the counter. Many of them are lawyers on their way to the courthouse across the street. They flirt with me and I act charming. I drink my coffee between making lattes. I feel myself lifting off.
John packs me breakfast the nights before my opening shifts and leaves it in a bag on the kitchen counter. I pretend to forget them.
At eleven, he comes in and asks for a black coffee. The store is mostly empty now except for a cluster of writers in the corner and an elderly man who comes every day and reads J. Crew catalogues. John hands me the bag with my breakfast in it. He’s upset.
You forgot this.
Thank you.
Did you eat something?
I look in the bag. There’s a vegan granola bar and a banana inside, and a Tupperware of peanut butter.
Yeah.
What?
A banana.
He doesn’t believe me but he doesn’t say anything. Something else is on his mind. I sneak him a free coffee. He’s brought his computer.
Are you going to stick around?
I want to finish reading something.
He takes his coffee to the window and sits in a red velvet chair with his computer on a small table. The lunch rush is light but a friend from class comes in and we talk for a minute before I introduce her to John. She’s glad to meet him, but John is dismissive. He’s too immersed in his reading to be interested. Although I don’t know what it is, I explain that he’s reading some difficult material. Still, she leaves confused. I text her later explaining it but she doesn’t respond.
At the end of my shift, John is waiting for me outside, smoking a cigarette, staring at the courthouse.
Are you ready to go? I ask.
Yeah.
Are you okay?
No.
We walk in silence.
A group of radicals liberated a fur farm in Iowa, he says. They freed 1,200 foxes.
That sounds like a good thing.
Did you know that foxes are anally electrocuted? That’s how fur farmers kill them.
That’s awful.
We take the long way back toward my apartment, passing Chipotle, Qdoba, a combination Taco Bell/Pizza Hut, and a bar. John wants to stop and get a drink.
It’s two thirty, I say.
He walks past me through the door.
I watched a video of a fox being electrocuted. He screamed like a human.
We sit at the bar and he orders himself a Boddington’s Pub Ale, and orders me a Sierra Nevada.
I don’t really want this.
I wanted to reach through the screen and stop them. I’ve never heard an animal make that sound before.
That night, John pushes me down. He cuffs my wrists together. He cuffs my ankles. The cuffs aren’t real, but they work. He lays me on my side like a pig prepared for roasting.
He turns my head so I can’t see him. I look at the dark corner.
I want you to come.
It’s hard.
It shouldn’t be hard if you love me. Come for me.
He pulses against me. Deep pulsations. I do what he says.
That’s what I wanted.
The library stays open twenty-four hours during test weeks. I awake at one in the morning with my head on a stack of studies I’ve copied from scholarly journals. My computer screen has gone dark. The room is aglow with peripheral blur and my dry mouth tastes metallic. I drink from the Adderall water, but it’s mostly spent. I stand and stretch and look around.
I am the only person here except for the student at the information desk who has also fallen asleep. Something moves by the copy machines: another student. He notices me but returns to his work. The distant hum of the air conditioner blends into the pulse of the copier and the silence between. I drink the rest of the water and walk a circle to the fountain and back, rub my face, and sit back down. I drink some more. My head is heavy with hunger.
I write: Type-1a Supernovae Progenitors From Merging Binary White Dwarfs. Underline it.
Traditionally, the scientific community has believed that mass accretion from a companion red giant pushed a white dwarf past the Chandrasekhar limit creating a standard-sized type-1a supernova explosion. This standard-sized explosion allowed for the use of type-1a supernovae as standard candles for measuring interstellar distances and the expansion rate of the Universe at different epochs. Indeed, it even allowed for the discovery of the dark energy instigating the acceleration of the Universe’s expansion.
My chest expands and contracts. I turn the pages of a study. I set it aside and turn the pages of another study. My heartbeat skips and I return to the first. The white glow of the paper is blinding. I blink. The backs of my eyes feel hot.
I return to the first study and underline and make marginal notes on the first two pages. I do the same for the second. I stare at the space between the two for a long time without seeing anything. I realize I have not breathed for several seconds and take a deep breath.
However, recent studies throw doubt on our understanding of the causes of type-1a supe
rnovae. Intercontinental analysis of 23 type-1a supernovae shows them exploding with different luminosities, suggesting that up to 75 percent likely originate, not with single degenerates accreting matter from main-sequence companions, but from merging double degenerates.
John calls me and the sound of my phone makes me jump. He has not taken his pills. Otherwise, he’d be asleep.
I’m in the library. I can’t talk.
I have new information, he says.
I’ll call you when I leave. Why aren’t you sleeping?
I’ve stopped taking my medication. There’s too much to do.
I have a paper due at eight. Let me finish and call you after.
I’ve made a list of supplies.
Just send me everything. I’ll find what we need.
Pay cash, he says.
I lie on the grass of the quad and feel the distance between my class and me. The difference between my class and me is vast. I don’t belong in a class.
I feel I don’t belong anywhere. I feel I don’t belong. I feel estranged from my body. It weighs me down. The best is to do away with it: be light.
Be free.
Shine without physicality.
I see myself as I am on the grass. I see myself as someone sees me. I see I am the grass.
Feminine, happy, successful, confident, alluring, intelligent:
the dark body that draws your gaze magnetically toward it.
Kelly Rowland Admits She Was Jealous of Beyoncé. I spin. The grass is cold, wet flesh.
I turn; draw away. I find this disgusting.
I find myself disgusting.
My body is disgusting.
A wreck.
5 Instagram Tips Everyone Needs To Follow According to The #RichKids of Beverly Hills.
Please don’t touch me, Earth. I’ll wreck you.
When animals feel they’re backed into a corner.
Brooke Burke-Charvet on That Sexy Gas Pumping Photo: “It Could Have Been Bad.”
I rise and flow to the concrete monolith, enter through the double-doors, pace the halls.
Is This Demi’s Best Hair?
I turn in celestial communiqués for a living to my professors: manifesto.
Please approve of the work I do. That’s all I ask.
To be a good worker or to do without.
Arms, legs.
Or to finally stand alone.
