10.6

I remember him milking the cow who's teat had a tear. She was healing, but she still let her milk down every morning because she didn't know any better. She didn't make any noise as he pulled milk into the bucket between his knees, not using the milker, not letting her milk go with the other cows'. On every alternate stroke, a thin stream of blood commingled with the milk and glazed the surface of the bucket a sickening twist, non-homogenized, violence in a place of innocence, injury in a baby's food.
It turned my stomach, and it still does, but I drink milk.