The boy was talking again. The best way is to slit the throat, he said, and tucked the chicken under his arm like a slightly sweaty businessman with a binder. Just cut the jugular, not the windpipe.

He talks quickly, with a trace of a lisp and that contrived air of authority unique to boys of most ages. I want to propose that we practice on him first, but the rest of them are talking, joking, dividing up the bird while she watches us. Their arms are crossed over their chests as they lean forward, occasionally rending the air with spastic barks of laughter. There is the same sheen of nervous anticipation in everyone's eyes.

One of the girls beheads her, her eyes hard and eager. The bird's eyes close, even though her beak continues to twitch. Everyone descends on her twitching body like buzzards, cameras extended. Their Facebook profile picture of the week. Make sure you get the blood in the picture, someone says, posing. I walk into the kitchen.

I don't want anyone else to know that I am physically ill. It wasn't the death of the bird. That is necessary, natural. I can't bear to see the disrespect of my race. We have no empathy, not as children, then not as women and men. We don't see sacrifice as sacred, we can't see past our own senses of entitlement.

Everyone is laughing now, because the bird looks silly with her feathers ripped off. I absurdly think of Jesus, naked, dead, and I wish that we could see something that makes us silent.