Have you ever heard about an utopia? I'm sure you know what that means; a beautiful, perfect place where everything is good. I live in such a place. In my country, everything was always perfect. Zero crime rate, no people dying of diseases, no insane people, whatever problem you could come up with, it just didn't exist here. My family was perfect, too. I had a loving, caring husband with a well paid job and beautiful daughter of only three years old, but already very smart. I would stay home and take care of the household, while my husband worked and made sure we had enough money to make it through the month. We were happy, never fought. Everything was just perfect.
Until one day.
My husband, Mitch, came home later than usual, and something was wrong. It was easy to notice, because he never got drunk. He had always agreed with me that it was okay if he wanted to drink, but that he shouldn't get drunk, or at least not in the presence of our little girl. We wanted to be a good example to her.
Jenna, our daughter, was already asleep when my husband got home. When I realised he was drunk, I got mad at him for being so irresponsible with alcohol. It didn't take long before we were actually fighting, for the first time in months. But this time, during that fight, Mitch did something, something he had never done before, and what I never expected him to do.
He hit me. It was no soft slap or punch, but a hard and aggressive one, right in my face. I was too shocked by his behaviour to react and kept my mouth shut. We went to sleep without saying another word and I slept on the couch, not daring to tell him to do so, afraid that he would hit me again.
The next morning, he noticed that I was lying on the couch, with a red cheek even, because of him. He apologised and seemed to be truly sorry about what he had done. Soon enough we had made up, after I made Mitch promise that it would never happen again. But he broke his promise, and it did. It started to happen more times, and it only got worse. I got bruised multiple times, on some rare occasions even got something broken because of him. He didn't even need alcohol to get aggressive anymore after a while. It almost seemed like a habit. He wouldn't just hurt me, but made me lie about it, too. So I told people that it all just happened because of accidents. Slipping on a wet floor, falling off the stairs, there were enough excuses. I would take the beatings, and lied to everyone who asked.
But one day, things went too far, and I couldn't contain myself anymore.
Hurting me, threatening me and making me lie was one thing. I could take that, no matter how worse it got. But then he hurt Jenna. My little girl was crying and bleeding because of her own father.
Everyone has a point at which they just can't take it anymore and lose control. Some people never reach that point, but I did.
No one would hurt my daughter. I wouldn't let them. Jenna was the most important person in my life, and I wouldn't let anyone hurt her, no matter what. I walked to the kitchen and pulled open the drawer. Picked out a knife that would be sharp enough and got back to the living room. I told Jenna to go to her room, and she did. Before my husband could go after her, I grabbed his arm and stopped him. He hit me, but this time I fought back. I knew he was stronger than I was and could easily kill me, but I didn't care. I just had to put an end to this all, had to make sure that he would never hurt Jenna ever again. We fought for a while, until I got my chance and took it. All it took was just one stab in his heart before his lifeless body dropped down in front of me. I had become a murderer, but was too relieved to care. It had finally all stopped, for once and for all. Jenna was safe from the monster that was my husband, and I would never have to endure any of his beatings again. I had my life back, would be happy again. Or so I thought.

Remember what I told you at the beginning? That I live in an utopia? Did you wonder how it's possible for something like that to exist, something so perfect? I never did, but I was about to find out.

Soon enough, the feeling of relief lessened and the realisation of what I had done hit me.
I murdered my husband.
Did I regret it? No, not even a little bit. The man I had just killed had not even been close to the man I once happily married. The past months he hadn't been the man I loved anymore, but a monster that I hated and feared with all that was within me. He had made my life a living hell, knew his daughter had seen what he did multiple times and in the end hurt her, too. I felt certain that if I had let all of it go on for any longer, that I would've been the one laying there lifelessly on the floor.
He was a horrible, terrible man, and he deserved what had been done to him. I didn't regret what I did.
But still, I was worried. I had killed someone. In a perfect country where nothing ever happened, someone had been murdered. This would reach the news faster than anything else, it would be a huge news item. What I had done would be known to everyone in the country. They were going to search for me, chase me down and lock me up. Take Jenna away from me.
I couldn't let that happen.
I quickly cut the corpse into pieces, put the pieces in a garbage bag. Threw away the knife. Put the garbage bag in the trunk of my car. Got back inside. Washed the blood off myself and Jenna. Soothed my frightened child, told her that we would be fine and that we were going on a trip. Carried her to my car and laid her down in it. Took my place in the drivers seat and drove away. Got rid of the body parts while she was asleep.
For a few days, everything went fine and I genuinely believed that maybe, I was going to get away with it. But one night, I stopped at a cheap motel, where my daughter and I could sleep. It was far from a nice place to stay, but I was in no situation to complain about that. I hired a room and fell asleep there, holding Jenna in my arms protectively. It was a restless, light sleep, which was quickly interrupted by noises. Someone got into the room and switched on the light. I sat up and looked to see who it was, noticing two men in uniform, both of them being armed.
"Mrs. Johnson?" One of them asked, and I nodded in response.
"Please come with us." Was the answer that followed after my nod and before I could do anything, I was handcuffed and taken away, but at the very least, they weren't just leaving Jenna behind. They took her with them as well, which was a relief to me at that moment.
I didn't struggle or try to get away. Two armed men against an unarmed, handcuffed woman. What chance did I have?
They put me and my daughter in the backseats of their car, with blinded windows. I had no idea where they were taking us to and had no way of answering the questions my little girl was asking me.
After what felt like a long ride, we finally came to a halt and were roughly pulled out of the car and led towards a building instead.
It looked far from a friendly, inviting place. As I looked at the building, one word came up in my head right away.
Prison.
I shook my head, rejecting the thought immediately. Of course this wasn't a prison. Why would a perfect country have a prison? Certainly, a town with no criminals didn't need one.
I had no idea what else the building I was nearing could be, or what was going on in there, but there was one thing I knew for sure:
I had a bad feeling about this.

No matter how much I wanted to believe that this place was no prison, there was no way to deny it. The inside was unmistakably the one of a prison. Not that I had ever seen a prison in real life by myself before, but I had seen enough images and whatnot to recognise it.
Without saying a word or trying to struggle, I let them bring us towards one of the prison cells. There was already someone in it, a man that seemed to be around my age, but there was clearly place enough for two in the cell.
They carelessly tossed me and Jenna into the cell, locked it as soon as we were in and walked away before I could ask anything.
I wasn't sure what I wanted to do, how to feel or whatever about all of this, but decided that I could wait with all of that. I needed to take care of Jenna first.
I ignored the man for the moment, I could always talk with him later. I turned towards my daughter instead, laid down in the lower bunk bed and caressed her cheek lovingly. I promised her that there was nothing she would have to worry about, and that we would be fine. I'm not sure how much time I spent sitting there next to the bunker bed, on my knees to soothe the most beautiful, loveable person I had ever seen in my life, but I didn't care. She was my daughter, and I would do anything to make her feel safe and good, no matter how long it took. I kept on doing so until she fell asleep.
Once she did, I looked at the man that was there with us.
"How did you end up in this... prison?" I asked, figuring that if I was going to be here with him anyway, I could at least try to get to know him better.
The man heard me and looked up. He was blonde with blue eyes, but he didn't look healthy nor clean. Not that I could care much about that, at the moment.
"Theft. Though this isn't really a prison. It used to be long ago, but it really isn't anymore." He answered, and I gave him a confused look.
"Than what is this place?" I asked, but was horrified when I heard his answer.
"A slaughterhouse."
My eyes widened, my skin turned pale and I was speechless, wishing I never asked that question.
Maybe I misheard him, or maybe he meant to say something different. I wanted I believe that so badly.
But after a moment of silence, he spoke up again.
"Let me explain how it works. You know what our country is like. Zero crime rate, everyone is employed, no homeless, no people that are incurably sick, no crazies... it's a perfect country. Or at least, that's what they keep showing you.
The truth is simple: it's just not possible for a country to have all people in it to behave perfectly. The majority of the people will, but not all of them. The people who don't behave the way they should are misfits, so to speak.
The way the leaders of our country see it, said misfits are nothing but a burden. The misfits don't fit in the picture of a perfect society. They need to be rid of.
And this place is their solution.
Why not just kill off the misfits and be quiet about what happens inside this building? That way, no new jobs need to be made. No new houses have to be built. No medical care for people who will die anyway. No court for criminals that are most likely guilty anyway. No mental institutes. No terrible news items or whatsoever. The misfits are simply removed from society, and their absence will be explained by a lie that anyone will buy. The misfits are taken care of, and the country remains perfect.
Believe me, you're not the only criminal around. And there's more than one sick person in here. There's at least a dozen of insane people in here and some homeless too, you just weren't aware of their existence until today, because of one simple reason.
Everyone and everything has its secret. This slaughterhouse is the secret of our country."

I was left speechless after what this man said. A slaughterhouse. I was not in a prison, but in a slaughterhouse. They were going to kill this man, and me too. Then I looked at Jenna. This was so much worse than just me being killed. I didn't dare to ask him if he knew what they would do to her.
"Why did you start stealing?" I asked instead.
"Because my wife, the love of my life, had fallen ill, and the disease she was diagnosed with is deadly. There is a treatment for it, but it was far too expensive for someone with a job like mine. More than anything else, I wanted my wife to get the best treatment possible, so that she had a chance to survive. So I started to earn money the only other way I could think of: stealing.
First it were simple things that I would sell, and I got away with it for a while. Maybe nobody noticed it.
But then the costs only got higher and my payment was cut in half, so I started to steal other things, more expensive stuff that I could sell for more.
Despite the treatment, her situation kept on becoming worse and it was terrible to see her suffer.
Then the doctor walked into the room, waking me up. My wife had still been in a deep sleep, needing all the energy she could get, and I had been at her side all night and was exhausted.
The doctor told me the worst news I could've heard, that she wouldn't get better and only had one month left to live.
Not even a day later, two men in uniform came to the hospital and took us away, to this place. Now I'm here waiting to die after I have seen my own wife dying in front of me, knowing that she didn't deserve this kind of fate at all. Maybe I do deserve this a little, for all the stealing I did. Even if I had good intentions, committing a crime is never good.
But she, my wife, she absolutely didn't deserve this. She was a good person who would never do something bad on purpose. Yet, they killed her, and for what reason? Because she was sick."
The man clearly had a hard time talking about the subject, and I felt sorry for him. To lose his wife in such a way had to be awful to him.
"And what about you? What brought you to this place?" The man asked, looking at me. I couldn't blame him for asking, even if it was no pleasant thing to talk about. After all, he just told me his story, so how could I deny it to tell him mine?
"I murdered my husband. We used to be happily married for a good amount of years already and our marriage was perfect, until he came home drunk one night. We got into a fight, and for the first time ever, he hit me.
After that, he started to beat me more often, threatened me and made me lie about it. He wasn't the man I loved anymore. He had changed, and I feared the monster he had become, so I did nothing. That was, until he started to beat our daughter, the most important person in my whole life. Seeing him beating her made me furious and brave, enabled me to do something I should've done much earlier. I killed him so that he couldn't hurt her anymore and got rid of his body.
After a few days, we were arrested and brought to this place." I explained, and he nodded in understanding, not saying something in reply. He wasn't judging me, and I was glad about that.
For a while, we both were silent. I supposed he tried not to think about this miserable situation as much as I did. Or at the very least, it would make perfect sense to me if that was the case.
Then he said something again.
"I just realised I have yet to introduce myself properly. My name is Jackson Rivers." He said.
"I'm Michelle Johnson." I replied, putting a pluck of black hair away from my eyes so that it wouldn't bother me.
"That's a beautiful name you have. It's a pleasure to meet you, Michelle, though it saddens me that we had to meet in such terrible, miserable circumstances." He showed me a courteous smile, but despite his best efforts, the sadness was there to be seen on his face.
I said nothing in return, but silently agreed with what he said instead.
It was nice to see a friendly face, but how I wished we had met one another at a different point in our lives.
This was an awful time to get to know someone.
Maybe it was stupid, too. To talk and become friends with someone, knowing that they were going to die.
But still, it felt good to have someone to talk with, someone who could relate to the situation.
Sooner or later, we were going to be led towards our deaths, the same way as they did with cows and sheep when they were brought to a butcher.
But it was nice to have some company while one had no choice but to wait for death to come and get them.