"Processing Conversion (Consensual, disembowelment," By robblu (https://pastebin.com/u/robblu) URL: https://pastebin.com/Keph1MBW Created on: Thursday 4th of August 2016 10:04:08 PM CDT Retrieved on: Saturday 31 of October 2020 03:29:59 AM UTC Processing Conversion (Consensual, disembowelment, Mother/daughter) I don't hold this person in any sense of malice. This is her job and she does it repeatedly every single day. Along side her are another dozen or so people doing the exact same task. Each has done this a hundred times a day. I wonder if I would have been able to do it as easily as she does. We are jammed into queues waiting our turn. We are on the last leg of the process of conversion. We aren't old enough to receive the Right of Resolution, an execution that is ceremonial and celebrates our lives. It was true that we knew this was likely to happen; that we would be culled for slaughter. It took a long time for the fullness of the culling in our community to actually take place. Yet it seemed to pass in no time and now we were facing the woman who was going to take a blade to our body and end our lives. My daughter squeezes my hand as the young woman in front of her steps forward to be killed. She turns away from watching, though she watched nearly a dozen women die before her. She looks up at me her eyes a little wider than normal. Both of us have worked hard at trying to be good...to do the right thing. Someone's wife or someone's daughter is always the one chosen to be killed. You only get chosen once. "I love you," I whisper looking down at her as I squeeze her hand back. The previous night was bittersweet and sad. We held each other as a family and cried, not because we were embittered that we had been the ones required to die. It was the same as when my oldest daughter was conscripted into slavery as the first born daughter. She knew, just as we did, that we would never see each other again and that she would be dead shortly after being conscripted. Sure enough, we received notification 11 months after her conscription that she had been put to slaughter. My youngest daughter's eyes soften at my words and she allows one last small smile. It fades quickly as the girl who was in front of her begins to cry loudly until it becomes a scream of terror as she is being butchered. The woman carries on for several seconds. I don't look up either and focus on my precious daughter. "It's going to hurt," I remind her. "Be a brave girl for me." She nods, her eyes glistening involuntarily. Then there is the tell tale creamy sound of entrails being emptied from the body as the wailing has hushed. Farther down, in another line, there is a brief scream from another killing. This is the only line designated for disembowelment. We are both big women and it was inevitable that this was the unfortunate consequence that awaited us. "I'm ready," she says softly. We made sure that there was nothing left, no bucket list left undone for our precious daughter...or for me. We allowed her to finally have sex with her boyfriend. He was at our home every night the past week and the upstairs resonated with the youthful exuberance of teen sex. Paul and I made love often as well. I could see how sad he was. We also started the process of finding him a succeeding wife. For the last three weeks, a young woman slightly older than my daughter, had allowed us to begin courting her for Paul. As was tradition, I made love with her several times and then we began to make love as a trio. Last night, she made love to Paul without me as I released him into her care. I ached at the thought but at the same time, I cared for her a great deal and I trust she will be a good wife to him and a nurturing step mother to my remaining son and daughter. I hear the mechanical sound of the winch carrying away the carcass of the my daughter's predecessor. I feel my heart skip. I am too busy being my girl's mother to worry about what is about to happen to me. "Remember, I am going to be right here with you." She nods and though she hasn't been called forward yet, she brings our naked bodies together and we hug fervently a final time. "Good bye, Momma," she whispers through a sniffle into my ear as I press her warmth close to me. "Good bye, sweet girl. I'm so proud of you." We break almost routinely. She takes a deep breath and turns to the Death Administrator who is just now pulling the restraints into position for her. She doesn't wait to be called but steps forward with a renewed sense of purpose. We had talked a long time during the past weeks about dying well. It is so much harder for citizens like us to be culled into the same process that is usually reserved for slaves who are conditioned to be slaughtered. We talked about how important it was to represent the family and to fulfill our role in society, whatever that meant for us. We now knew by the way we were being killed that both of us would be gutted and packaged as whole roasting sows. While it is an auspicious privilege that levies significant restitution for Paul and the kids, it also means that we die in a way that is not easy or painless. My daughter takes position where the foot pads are outlined on the floor. She looks down with interest as the woman calmly restrains her feet to the floor with comfortable, lined cuffs that are secured to the floor. The woman then stands. My daughter raises her arms up above her head where the woman fastens her into matching wrist cuffs. When they are secured the woman steps to the right and depresses a button on the console. The winch comes to life briefly and raises my daughter up to her toes. It is uncomfortable for her. I can tell by her strained expression but there is no alarm in her face. Then a second button is pressed and the winch pulls her arms forward so that her body is leaning forward about 15 degrees. As this is happening, the administrator brings an empty bin and places it below my daughter's prone position to receive her entrails. The woman pats my daughter in the small of her back just above her butt and says something softly to her. My daughter's answer is inaudible to me but there is a small smile of affirmation when she says it. Then she looks at me and realize it is time for her to die. The woman has already returned with a blade and without any precursor pushes it easily into her belly to the hilt just above the pubic bone. My daughter's face is startled and anguished but she focuses on me as I had hoped. I gaze into her eyes and I feel her pain as the blade cuts up her belly all the way to the sternum. My girl is unaware that she is moaning loudly but with restraint. The woman pulls the large blade out and then returns it to her lower belly, opening a neat bikini cut all the way across. My daughter's wound which was bulging and gushing with blood now opens completely in an avalanche of creamy intestines and organs. My daughter falls almost silent and makes the sound one might make when they are nauseous. Now she is crying fully but not screaming. The woman is behind her now and is working around her bottom, which causes my daughter to squeal with a new sensation of pain. When she is done the guts complete fall from my daughter's body until she is hollow, yet incredibly still alive and conscious. The woman says something else gently to her as she reaches the blade into the cavity where her organs were, abruptly directing the knife. My daughter's eyes open widely for a moment and then look at me with relief, an involuntary sigh issuing from her. Then she stops trembling and her head slowly sinks. My daughter was dead. The woman quickly removes the lungs and heart from her body, the process taking barely two minutes and then raises her carcass up after releasing her feet. The last vision of my daughter is of her emptied body hanging by the wrist being winched into a line with dozens of other dead girls. I am numb, stressed and completely ready to leave this life. My husband belongs to another now, my precious daughter is butchered and death now seems to be a delicious requiem for the fruit of my life. There is a large black woman behind me and for the last twenty minutes in line, her full bosom has been pressed up against my back in the close quarters of the line. Now she touches me shoulders with both of her soft hands. I turn to her. "Die well," she says. I nod politely at the kindness. "Thank you. Die well, yourself." The woman killing me is not unlike me. She is cautiously warm but efficient. She speaks warmly and appreciatively, even as she prepares me for death. The process of my restraint and winching seems to happen in mere seconds. Before I realize it I am stretched out at an angle, my arms taunt above me, my round belly ready to be gutted. "All ready?" she says patting my naked butt. I nod wordlessly, a little dizzy. She turns and then returns in what seems swift movements. I never see the knife but its piercing of my belly causes me to cry out and the sound seems to run on as she efficiently saws up my torso until the blade bumps into my sternum. I am wailing but I can't stop because the pain is so overwhelming and I can't seem to lose consciousness. I don't experience the bikini cut as any different as it becomes lost in my terror. I can feel myself shaking against the restraints and I am becoming cold as the blood is copiously filling the bin. As the bikini cut completes I feel myself gagging spontaneously as my guts begin to emerge from me under the release of my flesh and gravity. The woman steps from my view and then I am aware of her parting my buttocks and there is something metal and mechanical pressed up against my anus. I hear a little whine of machinery and then my butt explodes in pain as she cuts out my bung whole, which now releases my intestines completely from my stomach. I close my eyes but I am not dead yet. I can feel the woman in front of me and I am aware of her hands deep inside me, pulling things out. "Almost done," I hear her say. There is more movement into the cavity of my body and then I succinctly feel the full depth of the knife push into my heart. I sigh loudly as there are bright flashes in my brain until all I can see or feel is whiteness.