… little lamb…
The ground was frozen beneath her pitchfork.
"Come on…" thump thump thump
Mica's breath came out in plumes as an aggravated sigh escaped her. Her fingers were frozen in the thin gloves.
Puffing her cheeks against the cold, she braced her shoulders and slammed at the frozen pig shit that littered the sty all around. In one corner the pigs had huddled together for their warmth while one had strayed during her distracted struggle with cleaning the stall.
She felt its wet snout on her worn boot, nudging at her curiously and oinking. Mica shot it a sidelong look before shooing it away.
"... I'd eat you in a heartbeat if the owners weren't so nice to me" she muttered, "… didn't even have no breakfast today…"
Focusing on the task at hand she scraped through the frozen floor, slipping against the ice and nearly breaking her ankle in the process.
And when she nearly slipped for the tenth time in that hour, she threw the fork onto the ground in resignation.
The pigs startled while some blinked owlishly at her.
Her head fell back in anger while balling fists at the side, "I give up! I give up! I've been here since dawn murking this horrible stall, not getting anywhere with it–"
Waving her hands at the crowd of pigs, she stared at her gloves in indignation as if they had added to the offense.
"... I can't even afford proper gloves no more cause uncle keeps taking my money–"
She began to pace then stopped when her boot nearly slid.
… little lamb…
"I hate this job. I hate this job. I hate this job."
"Mica!"
The familiar voice startled her out of her all-consuming tantrum and she reached for the pitchfork again, hunching herself with brows furrowed in pretense concentration.
Boots followed soon after, echoing down the long hallway of her owner's shed which she had spent all morning trying to clean out in the minus temperature. She pretended to neither hear him, nor see his figure appear at the doorway leaning on the fence with a casual grace.
"Top of the morning little lass."
Mica glanced up and met his eyes with a rictus smile, the corners of her mouth tight and trembling. All teeth and no joy. "Mister Kempinski, good morning sir."
"I heard it's your birthday today, happy birthday."
"Oh."
From the moment she awoke her mind had been here, in the farm, counting how many cents she would shovel into her pocket before her uncle took it all by the time she sat down for dinner in the evening.
"Thank you. I forgot about that."
"How old you turning?"
Mica's grip on the handle tightened enough to still the trembling of her fingers. A silence followed between them, prolonged only by the knowledge of her age.
And the consequences that followed.
"Eighteen." The word came out as a whisper so low he had to lean in for a proper catch.
"What'd you say?"
Mica cleared her throat and looked him in the eye, as if repeating it would somehow take away the possible sacrifice looming in the future. "Eighteen."
His response was a simple curt nod but the joy in his gaze dimmed.
"Well, happy birthday then…" he began to walk away, stopping once to glance at her with a struggling expression. "Stay safe, yeah?"
Mica tried to fake the smile, "I will. Gotta make money to pay off my debts anyway." A shrug, "... which means I'll be here for a long time."
"Well, let's hope so."
The day passed by slowly like molasses dripping from a spoon.
Mica tried to keep warm while moving about, shoveling and feeding animals, pushing the wheelbarrow and tending to the late harvest crops in the fields.
By the time dusk arrived her bones were worn and she was trembling from exhaustion.
The walk home was dreadful.
By the time she reached the door of the cottage her uncle was sitting at the steps with a tobacco pipe dangling from his mouth corner, those beady black eyes watching her with mixed curiosity and disdain.
Mica fished for her day's wages from her pocket and held it out in a clenched fist.
"Didn't make much today, eh?" He grunted as the coins rattled onto his beefy palms.
She looked away and shoved her hands into her pockets, noiselessly brushing past him and into the cottage.
"Look at me while I'm talking to ya." The edge of anger in his voice had her warily turning to meet his gaze.
He smiled all grotesque-like exposing yellowed rotten teeth, "Happy birthday niece."
A cold finger touched her spine. She said nothing.
"Eighteen eh?"
She nodded mutely, shifting her weight from one foot to the next desiring to leave.
Her uncle turned his head and spat onto the frozen step. When his gaze returned to her, it had lowered to her crotch area brazenly. "Still a virgin?"
Mica blinked, dumbfounded. "What?"
"I said, aint had no prick up ya little cooch?"
The flush of disgust was all he needed for confirmation.
"Good." A nod. "I put your name up in the council this morning."
"What for?"
"Well, they looking for a sacrifice." He smiled. Rotten teeth. And she wanted to vomit at his next words.
"Heard the Lycan King is wanting new prey this full moon."