“When I grow up, I’m going to be an eagle!” chirped the child, “I’ll soar through the air with the planes we see every night.” The grandfather scowled, knocking the child away with a sharp jab to the shoulder. The child was unperturbed and swayed lazily to the rhythm of imaginary air currents, whistling to mimic the howl of wind. The grandfather swallowed the urge to give him another jab and turned away.

The factory was bleak, the gas lanterns on the walls barely keeping the darkness at bay. Mesh cages, constructed from naked wires and packed with birds, filled the concrete floor as far as the eye could see. They were stacked one on top of each other in messy piles, and teetered nervously like the skeletal remains of a Jenga-block tower. They were frayed from wear, some sporting jagged tears, and were black with mold from the filth left to rot under the eyes of unconcerned workers.

The  cages, now crude prisons infested with bacteria, were too small for the birds that crowded them. They were a sorry sight, bodies crammed against each other at unnatural angles, wings wedged uselessly at their sides, legs crushed beneath their overgrown bodies, and the same desolate expressions of defeat etched onto their faces. They were monstrous. A daily diet of steroids and proteins had malformed them into piles of flesh bulging from the cuts in the mesh.

The grandfather, seized by a fit of coughing, buried his head in his shoulder. The wheezing was getting worse, and he could feel the factory dust creeping deeper into his lungs with every breath he took. Looking down, he could see his feet caked with the same, oily gunk that covered the birds. He scraped the sole of his foot against the side of a cage.

“The birds are monstrous, huh?” the grandfather asked no one in particular.

He pinched the flaccid skin that sagged under his chin and from his cheeks, wiping away the dust that had settled on his forehead.

“As if I look any better,” he snorted to himself.

Stretching out his neck, the grandfather glanced at the small window on the ceiling, a speck of sky amidst an endless stretch of grey. Born and bred in the metal confines of the factory, none of the birds had ever set foot outside. The only piece of freedom they could grasp was the pitiful hole.

The grandfather squinted. He could make out the silhouettes of birds flying freely in the open air. He breathed in deeply, as if to taste the wind, but only the stench of sweat burned his lungs. With a hoarse cough that racked his body, he adjusted himself and stared at the child.

“Grandfather, do I look like I’m flying?” asked the child, flapping his wings wildly. The grandfather swatted the flailing limbs out of his face.

“Stop that,” the grandfather snapped. “Be still, before you smack someone on the head.”

Just as the child opened his mouth to speak, a scream pierced the building, as sharp as the screech of nails scraping the surface of a chalkboard. They craned their necks at the sound. A worker, clad in a cloudy, white jumpsuit, was trying to rip one of the chickens clean out of its cage. Its legs, left unused for too long, had melded with the rusted wires. The bird resisted frantically.

“Goddamn,” the worker growled, adjusting his grip and vehemently tearing once more. The grandfather stared in horror. A squawk, followed by another, and, suddenly, the sound of ripping.

“For goodness sake. Someone go help the man before that chicken is torn into two,” he yelled.

Three more workers rushed to the man’s aid, one holding the cage steady while the other grabbed the bird’s neck. It flapped its wings in vain, thrashing as it felt the skin being wrenched from its legs. The workers wiped the sweat from their brows, struggling to get a firmer grip. The bird writhed, trying as best it could to evade the hands that grabbed at it through the broken wires. More hands reached for it, like snakes winding their bodies around their prey.

With one last deafening shriek, its legs gave way.

The workers patted each other on the back and shook their fists in victory. Between the workers’ boorish displays of triumph, the grandfather caught a glimpse of the aftermath of the grotesque game of tug-of-war.

The chicken’s legs were mangled beyond recognition, half of the skin completely torn away while the other half lay in tatters like ripped bed sheets. The raw mess of flesh was slick with blood, the white of bone gleaming through the gaping tears. The chicken’s head hung low, its desperate cries of just moments ago reduced to a meek wheezing.

“Is this what being human is?” The grandfather whispered. One worker turned to stare at him and, for a second, their eyes locked.

“Who are you to judge?” they seemed to ask.

The grandfather broke his gaze first, staring at the floor to hide his flushed cheeks. Grunting, the workers walked away.

The grandfather shook his head in disgust, the corners of his mouth trembling in fury, his breath coming out in choked gasps. He couldn’t say anything. He squeezed his eyes shut and controlled his breathing as best he could.

“This blasted heart is trying to jump right out of my chest,” he muttered to himself. Every time he blinked, he could see the chicken’s legs in shreds, the workers’ jumpsuits splattered in red, and the piercing screams that echoed through the factory. “That poor bird.”

He was too old and had seen too much to worry about his life at this point, but the helplessness he felt left him in misery. He had never asked for much, only to be allowed to live with a shred of dignity. Yet, even that was being stripped away.

“They’d never catch me.”

The grandfather jumped at the voice. He had forgotten about his naïve companion. The child was tight-lipped, and he looked directly into the grandfather’s eyes and repeated, “They’d never catch me.”

For the first time, the grandfather could see the child for what he was. Chubby for his age and covered in dirt, with eyes glazed over like a frosted window. He wasn’t an innocent child. He was just hiding behind a curtain of ignorance, an adult imitating a toddler.

The grandfather snapped. The irritation that had been building up inside of him exploding in a fit of rage.

“Why can’t you look at what’s around you for once? You think you’re special, or different? All of us will end up like that someday. Now shut your trap and stop pestering me with your brainless comments!”

The child flinched, eyes widening with surprise. It was as if the fog had lifted from the boy’s eyes, as they jumped from scene to scene in search of solace. He opened his mouth again and again, only to close it each time his voice failed him. The grandfather turned away, grumbling to himself. The boy was nothing but a coward, always running from reality with his tail between his legs.

After what seemed like an eternity of silence, the child spoke.

“I’m going to be an eagle…”

The grandfather’s anger melted away at the sight of the child’s downcast eyes, clouded with denial. Clearing his throat deliberately, he leaned his shoulder toward the child’s. Maybe ignorance was better. If fate could not be changed, maybe dreaming was better than accepting.

That night, the grandfather dreamed. In his dream, he spread the wings he had never had and soared through the little window. He was a mighty hunter, an eagle. Nothing could hold him back. There were no cages or conveyer belts or screams of tortured birds. The only sound that could be heard was the comforting hum of silence. Golden silence. Before him, stretched out for miles, was a clear sky. He had never seen such a clear sky, and was content to lose himself in the endless sea of blue.

The grandfather awoke with a smile tugging at his lips, the weightlessness of the dream lingering like smoke around him. He glanced at his body and the smile wilted away. Gingerly lifting the stump below his shoulder, he stared at the empty space his wing had once been. With a cough, he rested his head against the side of the cage, trying to ignore the other birds crammed against him and the taste of sweat.

“Damn phantom pains,” he thought.