Chapter 4: The Night of No Mercy

Grandma’s voice echoed in my ears again, repeating:

"The sheep must walk upright..."

"The sheep must walk upright..."

"The sheep must walk upright..."

Each word pounded in my head, louder and louder, until it drowned out everything else.

My hands shook, and I pressed them to my ears, trying to make it stop.

I felt a splitting headache, especially at my temples, like something hard was about to break through the skin. I reached up and touched them—it felt like two bony lumps, but the sharp tips felt almost like sheep horns...

My breath caught in my throat.

I ran to the bathroom, locked the door, and stared at myself in the cracked mirror. The bumps were real, hard as stone. I wrapped my scarf tighter, hiding them from everyone.

The sky was gray. Snowflakes started to fall again, and from far away in the town came the heartbreaking wails of women, like some tragedy had happened...

The wind carried the sound all the way to our porch, mournful and raw.

It made the hair on my arms stand up. I pressed my forehead to the cold glass, watching the flakes swirl and fall, wondering if anyone else felt as lost as I did.

I felt cold all over and met Mom’s gaze. Her eyes were full of confusion and fear.

She tried to smile, but her lips trembled.

I could see the questions in her eyes, the worry she tried to hide. She reached out, brushing snow from my hair, and I leaned into her touch.

Only my brother was excited, running around the yard, making snowmen like a victorious general, singing a song I’d never heard:

"Slaughter the sheep, welcome the new day, become the best, roam the world. If you see a sheep walking upright, cut off its hooves, open its belly..."

His voice was shrill, echoing off the barn.

He waved a stick like a sword, marching through the drifts, his cheeks flushed with pride.

The song made my skin crawl.

My brother was always the most spoiled—selfish, arrogant, stubborn, but slow and couldn’t learn a thing.

He’d throw tantrums if he didn’t get his way, break toys and blame the dog.

Grandpa always said he was special, destined for greatness, but I never saw it.

Grandpa treasured this grandson more than anything. His biggest dream was for Eli to become valedictorian and bring honor to the family. For this, he invited doctors, tried every medicine, but nothing worked.

There were pill bottles lined up on the mantel, visits from specialists who left shaking their heads.

Grandpa spent money he didn’t have, chasing a future that never seemed to come.

Until one day, a fortune teller came through town, whispered to Grandpa, and suddenly Grandpa seemed to understand something, his face finally relaxing.

The fortune teller was a wiry old man with a pack of Tarot cards and a voice like gravel.

He took Grandpa aside behind the barn, and when they came back, Grandpa looked different—lighter, almost triumphant.

He went home and talked with Dad all night. In the morning, I even saw Dad wiping away tears.

Their voices drifted through the floorboards, low and urgent. When the sun came up, Dad’s face was pale, his eyes rimmed red.

He wouldn’t look at me or Mom.

Grandpa quickly took out the sheep’s organs, cut the meat, stuffed a chicken drumstick and a handful of herbs into the sheep’s stomach, and tossed it into a boiling cast-iron pot.

The kitchen filled with steam and the sharp tang of rosemary and sage.

Grandpa moved with purpose, his hands steady, his eyes never leaving the pot.

He personally stewed the mutton, and even let Mom and me have a few bites, which never happened before.

Usually, we ate last, picking over what was left.

This time, Grandpa ladled out bowls for everyone, even smiling as he did it. It felt wrong, somehow, like a celebration for something we didn’t understand.

The smell was nauseating. I ran to the bathroom and threw up until I was dizzy.

My stomach twisted, and I clung to the sink, gasping for air.

The taste lingered in my mouth, bitter and strange.

Mom tasted a bite, then set down her fork, frowning. "Why’s it so tough?"

She poked at the meat, her brow furrowed.

I could tell she was trying to be polite, but the look on her face said it all.