There was a time I couldn't even look at raw meat without tearing up.
I was maybe six. Still young enough to believe that food just appeared.
That year, we visited my dad's friend's ranch, and I wandered off alone, past the kennels and sheds.
Behind the barn, I saw a man with an axe standing over a pig.
The sound it emitted wasn't a squeal, but human-like screaming— high and terrified— cut off by a wet, final thud.
The smell was hot copper and something else earthy and wrong.
I didn't understand what the noise was at first, or what was even happening. Then I did.
Later, at dinner, the meat tasted strange. Like something I shouldn't have touched.
When I asked my dad if we had to eat animals and recalled what I saw, he just looked at me.
I cried when we got home, locking myself in the upstairs bathroom. Thought about every cut of meat on the kitchen counter. Thought about how they must've looked before— the life they lived.
My mom found me first.
She sat on the floor outside the bathroom door and talked through the wood. Quiet, patient.
"Sweetheart... it's okay to be sad," she said, "It's good that you care. That means your heart's working right."
I didn't answer.
"But listen. Not everyone hurts animals the same. Some farms, like that one, don't do things kindly. But others raise animals with space, real food, warmth. And when they die, it's fast. No fear. No pain."
Her voice was a soft murmur, and I could see her shadow move under the door. It was as if she were touching the wood where my back was pressed.
"... B-But they still die. What if they want to live?"
"Yes, but everything dies, eventually. What matters is how we treat each other while we're alive. We take care of them. We don't waste what they give."
I sniffled.
"... So, eating others isn't always bad. And, the good farms— they usually wait until animals are old." She paused, considering her words. "But some people believe that even a good life isn't ours to take. That it's a gift we don't have the right to refuse for them. I'll have you know we only buy from good farms. But, if you ever feel that way— if you ever don't want to eat meat— I'll understand. Just promise me you'll stay kind."
My dad found me later that night.
"You're still crying?" he asked. "It's been over an hour. Crying won't bring back the pig."
Flinching, I bring my knees closer to my torso.
"Things eat things. If you want to live, you kill something else. It's not evil. It's balance."
I rubbed my face with my sleeve. "Why does everything have to die?"
"Because that's the way the world is. You're born, you get eaten, or you eat, and then die. That's it— no way around it."
"... That's not fair," I muttered.
"Life doesn't care. It doesn't even think," he said flatly.
After forcing the door open, he tapped my forehead hard enough to make me blink.
"You're probably trying to find some meaning because your brain wants patterns. But the truth is; life just is. You want to feel bad for the pig? That's okay, child. Sadness is part of being human. But, I want you to know that this is the reality."
———
I learned to live with it. Over the years, I trained myself not to picture the animals or hesitate before dinner. You build a wall between the thought and the act, and eventually, the noise on the other side grows faint.
But the direct kills never sit easy.
No matter how smooth the strike or shot, how fast the death— there's always a weight after. Not grief. Not regret. Just something quiet that presses in behind the ribs.
Something like: You're still the reason it's gone.
The smell of raw meat hit stronger once the skin came off. Metallic, slightly sweet. I rinsed the pieces in the river. Thighs, ribs, strips of back meat, then skewered them with my spear.
I sat and waited, roasting.
Smoke grew stronger. The meat sizzled and popped, oil dripping into the fire below. It smelled clean now, lightly gamey, like roasted duck or well-charred lamb. The kind of scent that filled your lungs more than your mouth.
I turned the skewer every few minutes. The color shifted slowly. From pale to pink, pink to gold. Bits of flesh browned and tightened near the bone, crisping at the edges. A few dark patches formed where the fat seared directly over flame.
I checked each piece with the edge of a branch. Still bleeding? Put it back in the fire. Press for softness. Wait.
The wind shifted. My legs itched faintly from the grass. Somewhere in the trees, birds made short calls, sharp and simple.
Time passed without urgency.
When they were finally done, I pulled my spear off the fire and waited for it to cool. Then bit in.
Juice ran down my fingers. The flavor hit harder than I expected. Clean, smoky, just a little wild. The fat had softened the leaner cuts. It wasn't tender, but it tore easy, and there was just enough charred taste to make it satisfying.
I ate in silence, focused. One bite at a time. No rush. Just warmth, fire, and the smell of woodsmoke clinging to my skin.
I glanced at the third rabbit.
It had looked... different. Larger than the rest, but not in the way of fat or age. Its limbs had been stronger, the fur glossier.
When I'd killed it, its body had felt tense, like there was something more in the muscle. Coiled power. Spring-tight.
Even the way it had moved— it reacted faster than the others, sharper turns, stronger jumps.
Magic, or mana. 'Energy that allows users to shape, manipulate, and or rewrite the forces of nature'. A term I'm familiar with from my past experience playing video games.
I summoned the cat. It had drifted into view, lounging mid-air above the fire like it was sunbathing.
"That last rabbit," I said, "It was different."
"Mm," it murmured, "Touched by divine breath."
"Mana?"
"More or less," the cat replied, eyes half-lidded. "This world is saturated with it. The stronger creatures learn, instinctively, how to shape and use it. Some even pass it down, generation to generation."
"That wasn't a spell. It was just... stronger."
"Mana isn't only for casting," it confirmed, "It changes things. Sharpens instincts. Strengthens flesh. Makes them more efficient. You'll see more of that. Eventually, you'll do the same."
The sky was just like yesterday, sunny and softly windy, clouds trailing lazily overhead. The smoke was barely visible now.
The cat continued, "Mmhm, like your species back home. You eat. Train. Adapt. This world does the same, but faster. Divine breath accelerates evolution, when the body's willing and fighting."
"How do I control it manually?"
The cat rolled lazily in the air. "You'll learn. Eventually. Right now, it's just a presence flowing through your body. Later, it becomes something you can command."
I leaned back, watching smoke drift into the afternoon sky.