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Confession Of A Mass Murderer

I possessed them. I possessed their life. I possessed their death.

I ate them. I ate their life. I ate their death.

I drank them. I drank their life. I drank their death.

I whetted my mouth in anticipation of drawing them into me, and sucking into my throat the remains of them, and I filled my insides with the joy of having them in me. I purchased their imprisonment in future hope of owning what I wanted from them, and I handed the coins to their executioner in payment for what he would do when they could no longer satisfy my desire. The executioner drew the door closed, and I blinded my senses so that I could not see nor hear nor know of what he did because death was his business, I said to myself, and his business is not mine, it’s none of my business, I said to myself, although I did not mind his business, because I could buy from him the things that I so desperately wanted, things that I could never imagine not having, not wanting, and certainly not surviving, even living, without. How I could I live without them?

So it was. That’s how it was. I would wake up in the morning and my morning meal would comprise a modest breakfast, and would contain the milk that I carefully poured over cereal as I set myself, satisfied, for the remainder of the day. By the time it was lunch I would reach for a sandwich with sliced cheese inevitably the primary ingredient, chewed and digested with great gusto. And as for those evening meals, they would so often be smothered in more cheese, baked or grilled or simply sprinkled on top, but definitely there, definitely everywhere! All washed down with coffee awash with yet more milk to satisfy my preferred taste – because, no, I couldn’t imagine my coffee without that milk.

That milk of course was cow’s milk. That cheese of course was coagulated cow’s milk. That very definition should have alerted me to the fact that what I wanted, what I was having, what I convinced myself I needed so badly, was something that came from, and thus belonged to, someone else. But I believed. I was a true believer. I believed what I was told to believe by those who wanted me to believe, because so long as I believed they could go on selling directly to me that something that was the source of all their profits. The industry that “produced” cow’s milk and cow’s cheese (and, not forgetting, goat’s milk and goat’s cheese, and so on, and so on) told me that it was good for me, indeed was essential for me, and anyway what was the harm, what could be possibly be wrong in helping out the cows (or goats) by relieving them of all that milk they were making, day after day? It was all good. So I believed. I looked at the pictures that they made, the cows reclining in grassy fields, I absorbed the commercials they showed on the TV, I listened to my doctor as she spoke about good diets, I heard what the experts said on the radio about the body’s needs, and I paid attention to the stories of farmers and the hardships they endured because of the wicked pricing tactics of supermarkets.

All the while I bought the milk and I bought the cheese, I bought the whole tale, and I stuffed it all in my head. And all the while I ignored the cow. I convinced myself the cow was fine and wouldn’t mind.

With every mouthful, I murdered.

Every day, I woke up as a killer and in my house and out of my house and when I was alone and when I was friends, I killed. Bored at work, and bored at home, watching TV, reading a book, playing a game and having chats, catch-ups with mates, I killed. I killed again and again and again and all the while I told myself it was all okay, it’s not as if I’m actually eating the cow, I said to myself, and anyway, what else could I possibly do? How could I ever live without milk in my coffee and cheese on my plate? What else could I possibly do? What about pasties, and pasta meals, and sandwiches and what would I put on cocktail sticks? What else could I possibly do?

And then I knew. I looked in a mirror and then I knew. I took a breath and swallowed nervously, with difficulty, because then I knew. I saw myself for who I was and I saw myself for what I did. I knew where my money went and what the farmer did. I knew where my money went and what went on in the abattoir when the door was closed. I knew where my money went and what lies I was told by corporations with money and no morals, what stupid lies with cartoon cows, talking and dancing cows, laughing cows, giggling and jumping, and all those pretty pictures on cartons of milk and packets of cheese with pastures of green, suns of stunning gold and skies a perfect pastel blue, but never, never, never the red of the blood.

Because then I knew about the blood. I knew about the blood of the cow’s wounds as she was worn by repeated rape (I knew about the rape: how else could I describe forced pregnancy?), and the blood that blew out from the new-born calf whose head was smashed in by the farmer’s hammer (I knew about the hammer: how else to “dispose” of the “unwanted” and “unprofitable?). I knew about the blood that burst like a torrent from the cow’s throat when she was wiped out at the slaughterhouse, because she had given (for given, read: we took) everything and she was no longer any good, we were told, for anything – after giving (for giving, read: we stole) every child she bore and every gallon of breast milk she made for her children and who were never there to receive it; we took her to die and we took her life. And when she died, there was blood.

So, I knew. I knew the violence of the dairy industry and its twisting and perverting of the truth of what it does. I knew about the ignorance of medical “professionals” and “qualified” nutritionists all of whom who chose not to learn and not to question, who were obedient just as I had been obedient (but I would have expected better from professionals), and who had bowed to industry interests and refrained from wondering aloud and asking the most basic question, “Why are humans drinking the breast milk of other animals when they have already been weaned by their mothers?”

I asked myself the basic question. I answered the basic question in an instant: this is wrong. I also asked myself what on earth I was doing, participating in an industry of mass murder (I knew about the mass murder: no calf or cow ever gets out of the industry alive). I answered myself in an instant: I was wrong. I felt ashamed at my chosen ignorance, I felt embarrassed that I had failed for so long to even think at all about what I was doing, and I was appalled that I had allowed myself to be conned so easily by those with money for eyeballs, a bank balance for a heart and a knife for a mind. I felt sick in my stomach because my stomach was drowning in the blood of the innocent, and I had murdered them. I felt anger in my head because it had happened at all, and all those days when I had done nothing at all but kill and kill again, every time I handed my money over, and over and over again when I poured the milk over my cereal and into my coffee and shoved it in my mouth and swallowed. I swallowed a million screams of agony. And now I could hear every one of them, and now I could see every one of them, every cow who ever suffered and died, and every calf who ever suffered and died, I saw them all, all of those who suffered and were murdered because of me.

I was a mass murderer. I was the cause of so much pain, so much hurt, and so much heartache. I was the cause of so much agony on the farm and so much violence in the slaughterhouse. I was the cause of a life of horror so many were forced to endure and which ended only with their vicious killing, which I caused.

It was what I did.

It is not what I do now. When I finally had the courage to question what I was doing, and I chose to use my mind and my heart to think with clarity and wisdom, and I dared to hear what others were telling me about “milk” and “cheese” – I recall one lady who sat me down and told me all about “dairy” and milk and cheese and showed me some pictures that I had preferred not to see before – then I knew too that I would not do that anymore.

I was afraid. I was scared. How would I do it? And then I woke up in the morning and went outside and went to a shop and bought some different things instead, and then I went home and poured a different kind of milk over my cereal and didn’t bother any more to dilute my coffee, and at lunchtime and dinner and out and about socially, I just ate slightly differently. And I didn’t die. The ground did not shake, the sky did not fall, the Earth continued on its way around the Sun and the Moon still shone on a cloudless night. All I did was buy some different stuff. That was all I ever had to do. It was one of the easiest things I’ve ever done, that I’ve ever asked myself to do. And all I had to do was allow myself to know.

And now, I am an ex-serial killer, my mass murdering days are in the past only. I cannot undo my past, the bloodshed that stains those days when I did what I did, the violence I caused, the pain that I made happen. It is forever a part of me. But it is not me now. My guilt will never diminish and nor should it – I did it and I must be honest that I did it and I must respect those who died because of me by not denying their murder at my hand. But I will now use my every breath to rail against that system of extreme cruelty and violence we so casually call “the dairy industry” and the sick cruelty behind every drop of animal milk and every bite of animal cheese in the hope, the desperate hope, that others will want to know, as I finally wanted to know, and others will want to be, as I now am, free from the grip of that industry’s bloody lies, and that others will want to do, as I now do, and demand that every animal born into farming’s enslaving and murderous grasp is set free for no others to be born, ever again, into that brutal and uniquely cruel nightmare.

Please – learn from me, a mass murderer.

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