June 15, 2042
Dear Mr. Gene Relyston,
I know I am supposed to work today, but this is my letter of resignation, effective immediately.
Mr. Relyston, I was so very grateful to work for you. I had been trying to leave the oppression, violence, conflict, and lack of opportunity in my hometown for years, and Yenslot gave me hope for a better life. I knew processing plant work would be hard, but I was eager to get started. It seemed like good, honest work. You told me I could advance if I stuck with it, and I’ve been here almost two years, outlasting all but one of the people I trained with. So I want you to know that I tried. I really tried.
I could handle the long night shifts. I could handle the six- and seven-day work weeks. I could handle the cold and the damp. Some people complained about the short, infrequent bathroom breaks, but I just wore diapers. And while, like most, I have carpal tunnel from the repetitive movements required on the line, unlike some of my coworkers, I do still have all my fingers. I like meat and figured if I was going to eat it, I should be willing to process it. And I was willing.
But Yenslot did not tell me the source of the meat. You did not tell me we would be processing people. People! I guess that’s why you recruit workers from so far away—so we won’t recognize the corpses. But your plan didn’t work, at least not for me.
My own mother’s leg came down my line. My mother! The ankle tattoo looked familiar, but I dismissed it as just a coincidence. But I recognized her left foot—the corns and bunions I used to help her scrub each week with pumice stone, the webbing between her second and third toes. It was my mother’s leg. Still, I quickly cut off the foot, as I do thousands of times each shift, and kept the line moving. You always told us to keep the line moving. And I thought I still wanted my job.
I tried to put the leg out of my mind. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it really wasn’t my mother. Then this morning, after work, before I could call my mom, I got word from my aunt that my mother had died in a bus accident two days ago while traveling here to surprise me for my birthday on Thursday. She was in your range of harvest. My own dear mother.
I can work for you no longer. The slaughter is simply too much to bear. I’m not sure what’s next for me, but it will not include Yenslot Meats.
Please send my last paycheck through direct deposit, as before.
Thank you.
Shirl Tensloy
