So you have come again, little lamb? Tell me, where is your family? Your shepherd, your herd? You come so very alone, little lamb. You stomp through the forest like it’s yours, you gaze upon the trees like they’ll sing, you humm a tuneless tune to keep the shadows at bay.
I know what’s underneath your layers of clothing, under you skin and you muscles, I know what makes up your brittle, broken bones. Oh little lamb, turn back now my sweet. They’re searching for you. Of course you don’t hear them calling your name. You never listened before, so why listen now?
You’re going to save them, are you? You’re going to walk into my land and take back what was never yours, little lamb? Tell me, are you going to keep the screams that ripped out of their raw throats? You can have them; they’re still echoing around in the frosty air.
They won’t come to your calls, little lamb. They never could. They’re rotting into the soil as we speak. Their fluids are making the leaves underneath them soggy, the buzzards are pecking out their eyes, the wolves have ravaged their flesh. You’ll smell them before you could ever see them. Your stomach will twist into knots, you’ll go pale, you’ll have to lean up against one of my trees as you spew out your guts. I’m sure the maggots will be twisting and crawling around in their skulls. What good treats they make!
Oh little lamb, I cannot wait for you to fall. How long will it take you, hm? A week, a month, maybe three? Watch as the night grows closer, how the moon hides behind her clouds. Listen as my forest stills around you, as the leaves stop whispering in the highest branches, as a brave owl hoots — mocking your name. You’ll stumble around for shelter, hugging your thinning arms about you, shivering, chattering, wasting water with hopeless tears.
There’s nothing in the sky that wants to smile down on you, for there’s only the insatiable hunger of all that hides. They will eat you as they have eaten the ones that you love.
What now little lamb? You lay on the earth in a ball, still. But you breathe. You are nothing more than the dirt you lie upon. That’s the problem with creatures like you, always taking more, chipping away at me and what I am, for your own benefit. What of your mother? Will she follow you like your father did?
They would still be alive if it weren’t for you, little lamb. You would still be able to to have their warm arms wrapped around you, their soft words being whispered into your ears, you would be full, your cheeks rosy, you smile wide. But no. You had to take.
Now you watch as snow settles down onto your stiff body. You don’t have the energy to shiver anymore. Your blood is thick as sap as it settles. Ice snakes up your face, holding it like a mother would hold her newborn. Your heart is laying down to rest — the last thing to go.
It’s too late for you have killed another, little lamb.
J. V. Montague 