Word Count: 481
Once you have heard the scream of a string bean being julienned, it will haunt your days forever.
Most people don’t know–I never did–that all living things have feelings. Not only physical like pleasure and pain, but emotional feelings like fear. I noticed it first as I popped open and slid a knife around the shell of a clam, severing the muscle that tried against all hope to keep it together. I thought I saw it cringe at the splash of wine vinegar. Then felt its flesh resist at the cut of my teeth into its soft succulence. Curious, I watched the next few more closely, saw it pull back from the teasing tip of my knife. Still, I didn’t consider vegetables and fruit to do the same.
It’s torture, I suppose, the unexpected wrenching away from the plant. I wondered why some of the tomatoes tried to hide under leaves, elude me. I honestly think they can see or at least feel my shadow overhead blocking the sun.
The more conscious you become of possibility, the more you can learn. Potatoes seem like such losers. They grow underneath the ground, in the dirt, unassuming little tubers with no soul. Their eyes, though, their eyes. Until I studied one closely, I never knew they could see! But they don’t whimper or scream. They may have eyes, but no mouths, you see. I do feel sorry for that and so, besides animals, fish of all sort, and mollusks, I will not eat a potato.
The string bean was one of a bagful I’d picked from my garden. It bore the cold water washing and snipping off of its stem tip without incident. Lay in a pile of its brethren awaiting my knife.
I picked him up–for upon closer inspection I found it indeed was male–and laid him still on the cutting board, carefully holding him in place as I drew a line down the length of his belly as steady as surgeon with scalpel. And he screamed. I dropped the knife, shocked as I was to hear such a noise from a string bean. I held my breath, put on my glasses, swear I saw him writhe on the board. I came closer, put my ear down to where I guessed was his head. Difficult to hear, to listen, to understand, and to this day it brings tears. He told me the truth about vegetables. Then he died.
So that left me with rice, lentils and such, as a staple. If they shout out in fear, come to life as they hit boiling water, they, at least are so small that even if I listen carefully, shut the windows and lean in real close, I cannot hear, or as yet have not heard, so much as a whisper of life. In my heart, I hope this is true.
