We eat meat every day without thinking much. A piece of chicken, some beef, maybe lamb or fish. But we don’t stop to think deeply about where it really started. Not the supermarket shelf, but the actual beginning. We never ask ourselves how these animals lived, what they felt, or how their last moments were spent.

Sometimes, I wonder—how many animals have become part of me? How many cows, goats, and chickens have built this one body of mine? A strange thought then comes to my mind. Maybe I’m not just made of meat. Maybe I’m also made of their fear, pain, and final breath.

Am I a soul eater?

That’s why I wanted to tell Daisy’s story. Because she had a name, and stories are better when they have names. Because we hardly ever hear their side.

I was born during a thunderstorm. My mother moved slowly that day, heavy and tired. While other cows hurried to shelter, she laid down beneath a tree. Between the thunder and rain, I came into this world. My mother licked me quickly, racing against the lightning. I couldn’t see clearly, but I felt warmth. That was enough.

The farmer found us later. He smiled gently. A small girl stood behind him, wearing yellow boots and hands covered in paint. She looked at me as if she’d found something precious the world forgot about. She touched my head softly and whispered, “I’ll call her Daisy.” I licked her finger, tasting trust. Her name was Lily. I remember that too.

Lily visited me often. She gave me apples, talked endlessly, telling me about school, her dreams, and a lazy pet who loved to sleep. Once, she drew my picture, flowers in my hair, and promised nothing bad would ever happen to me. I believed her, because love makes promises believable.

Seasons passed gently. Spring made the grass kind and whispering. I ran, jumped, felt the earth smile beneath my hooves. Summer brought heavy days, flies buzzing lazily around my ears. Fall felt like a gentle farewell. Leaves changed colors and fell, like quiet goodbyes. Winter turned the world white and silent, keeping us inside a warm barn. But it was a sad warmth, like a hug without love.

I watched three years pass. And I saw other things too—like the truck. It arrived early, groaning as if tired of lying. The cows taken never returned. We wondered where they went, imagining farms with sweeter apples and softer grass. But older cows knew better. They spoke softly about the slaughterhouse. The truck wasn’t taking you somewhere nice; it was just taking you away.

Then, one day, I became a mother. My body hurt, but my heart felt enormous. I licked my calf over and over, just as my mother had licked me. She was mine. But they took her quickly, before I even learned her voice. I cried until my throat burned dry. My milk filled me painfully, with no one to give it to. Machines pulled at me coldly, draining my warmth like I was a lifeless object. I stood still because that’s what you do when nobody cares why you hurt.

And then my turn came.

It was a summer morning, too bright and beautiful. They loaded me into the crowded truck. We pressed close, silently sharing our fear through skin. Outside, trees danced freely, and children laughed through sprinklers. The world was wonderfully alive, just as I was leaving it behind.

The slaughterhouse was clean, cold, and white. Death wore a neat coat.

We stood in a line, trapped between metal walls. One cow fell weakly, another lost control in fear. Workers looked away or wore headphones, music loud enough to silence guilt. One held a tool they said was quick and painless. But who asks those who die?

He placed it against my head. I didn’t resist. All I thought was, Was I good?

Click. Silence.

But I wasn’t gone yet.

I rose above, watching my body fall, blood spilling out, hands cutting me apart. They turned me into parts, peeling away my skin, taking organs, breaking bones. My fat melted into something someone would later enjoy without ever knowing it kept me warm in winter.

Workers hardly spoke. One wiped his face, whispering he couldn’t do this anymore. Another stared at the floor like it told him a sad story. They looked tired in a way sleep could never fix. The worst part isn’t the killing, it’s pretending. Pretending it’s just meat. Pretending blood is just a mess. Pretending eyes don’t see you.

They packed me in plastic, labeled, frozen, put on another truck. Cold, quiet, going everywhere and nowhere all at once.

I wandered.

Parts of me went to stores, restaurants, homes. Then one day, I found Lily again.

She had grown older, sadder. She asked her mother softly, “Where’s Daisy?” Her mother hesitated, then said gently, “She went to another farm.” Another farm—a gentle lie wrapped as comfort.

That evening, Lily’s mother cooked dinner. Steak, sizzling strong and familiar. Lily took a bite, pausing.

“It tastes weird,” she said quietly.

I watched her chew the piece of me that once trusted her.

I wanted to ask her:

Do you still draw pictures of me?

Did I matter to you?

If love cannot protect, what’s it really worth?

If life is just something you buy, was it ever really mine?

If kindness stops somewhere, who decides where?

But I had no mouth—only heavy questions no one wants to hold.

I looked at Lily once more. Her eyes had tears, but not for me. Just tired tears. Her mother washed dishes, life moved on quietly.

And I…

I faded into air. Like a whisper nobody hears, like a story nobody tells, like a name nobody remembers.

I had a name.

And I remember everything.

When we eat, we don’t ask about the stories on our plates. We never ask about their souls.

How many souls did you eat today?