Wrapped in shrieking thoughts

The coldness of the autumn breeze seemed to make his pale legs tremble that morning. I was lying on the dry sharp grass waiting for him to undergo his horrid but necessary journey. I had merely seen him a couple of times before this day, but I clearly remembered the rosy color of his cheeks, a beauty that in everyone else’s eyes had mysteriously disappeared today, but it was an easy task for me to see the excruciating fear that his eyes reflected. He wasn’t nearly ready for the blood-bath he was about to experience, and not just as a witness, but he was going to be the one in charge of the degrading slaughter. Its possible that my sixth sense was acute that day or I was paranoid, but I swear that dread invaded the air I was breathing when that innocent boy passed by me on his way to the slaughter-house. I could see the clouds forming crossed rivers pouring thick, red liquid over me, and the grass that had once poked my back was now starting to rip my shirt, it almost felt like the blades of a thousand scalpels running across my flesh.
Every step he was taking became an ever heavier burden sculpted out of guilt. It looked like his feet gained twenty pounds with every step closer to the old, reeking shed. The claustrophobic building was made out of recycled, rottening wood that through the years had gained the knowledge of a million screams and the dry, smelling blood on the wood cracks was its proof. Thousands of animals had entered that humid shed alive and came out not as living things, but as scrumptious treats for the closed minded. The shivering boy stared at the cracking door with eyes wide open that gave away the immeasurable fear that flowed through his body, his pupils screamed with anger; his vibrant eyes were the doors that lead me to his anxiety.
He paused for some seconds and stared at the rusty hinges while he seemed to be wrapped in morbid, unpleasant thoughts of what the future awaited him with. In an attempt of hiding his so called “weakness” he entered with strong steps, followed by his uncle. Ignoring the smells that appeared from the closed spaces of the building, he grabbed the bloody, wooden handle and inspected its swiftness. While forming part of this egocentric play the sight of his uncle untying the rope that held tight the neck of the almost chocking animal stunned him. The terrifying song the scared pig sang was made out of shrieks and it was at this moment that the he started being aware of his ghastly environment.
The air began to thicken with every breath, and his hands started getting clammy to the point that the handle stuck to his skin. Every second seem to be another gruesome dejavu. He had been dreaming about this day since the old man next to him, he who he called “Uncle”, had trusted him with the honor of literally bringing the meat to the table. This being a ritual of transition that had been in his family since he had memory. The young boy didn’t know if the increasing heart beats and cold sweat were just a product of his imagination or if they were his actual diagnostic, a diagnostic with no need for an explanation. The grey storm that was forming in his mind was conformed by a mixture of incomprehensible thoughts, that at this point didn’t even had importance, because there was no moral influence of any kind that could keep him away from this, it had to be done.