Modernisation is an amazing thing. It hides in the backstory to most of your favourite meals. This means piles of intestines are not on display in shop windows. Ice cream does not contain cat hair. Go to the shops now, and you can choose from a grand selection of packets and containers with no suggestion of their grisly origin.
The one exception is the fish counter, where you still see the reality of your food. Whole corpses laid out on a hillock of cracked ice. Their mouths open in despair. Their cold eyes staring into your own.
My parents said it was so much better to buy produce from the fish counter. This was natural stuff with no added chemicals. A treat for your body, and the way all food should be.
I looked into those dead pupils, and saw nothing but anxiety and fear. An animal wrenched up from its home by a hook. But what stressed me out most was that I was sure a spark of horror still lived within. That these fish were not quite dead.
I forced my way through so many lunches. Took revolted glances at our fridge stuffed with tails, fins, and tentacles. At least my conscience was clear. I was under duress.
When the revolution exploded we had no chance. The water had always been an unknown but arrogant barrier. When they managed to cross over, we realised that tridants can be a lethal weapon. How outnumbered we were.
I lied about the abundance of sanitised food in the shops. That was true until the recent past. Now those shops are dark and empty.
The courtrooms however remain busy places. They took them over, and soon everything smelt of kelp. Many of my friends are hanging up, or already on ice. I bet their eyes have the same cold dread.
My turn is six people away. I wait in the freezing corridor, the thin carpet soaked with sea water. No one has returned as yet.
But I have my defence planned out. I can argue my case with passion and clarity. I will explain the guilt I felt, and those horrible hours staring at dead faces. I think I have a good chance of survival.
