its bad to be nice
The smell of freshly baked bread and faint cinnamon filled the air of the bakeshop as the old goat behind the counter wiped flour-dusted hands on his apron. His fur was a mix of grays and browns, peppered like he'd been standing too close to a flour explosion, but it suited him somehow. He had that perpetually tired look people get after years of dragging themselves through each day, but his voice always held warmth when he spoke to me.
"Hey, thanks for the help, Sableth," he said, giving me a small, lopsided grin.
I didn't respond, just shoved my hands into my hoodie pockets and waited. I knew that tone. That here-it-comes tone people get right before they do something irritatingly generous.
"Here," he said, lifting a cloth grocery bag from behind the counter and setting it in front of me. The bag was worn, its once-vibrant print now faded, patched up in spots where time had gotten the better of it. "It's some groceries I bought for the students. I was gonna give it to the poorer kids from the community learning program, but I feel you deserve it more."
I stared at the bag as if it were some ancient relic I was being forced to touch. Groceries. A gift. How utterly nauseating. My lips twitched into what I hoped was a neutral expression, but inside, I was already rolling my eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn't fall out.
A gift. A gesture. A reward for doing something I hadn't even meant to be helpful. Just great. I hated gifts. Hated them with a passion most people reserved for things like slow internet or politics. Gifts meant obligation. They meant I had to say thank you, pretend to care, and worst of all, accept them. I hated anything that tethered me to someone else's expectations, no matter how small.
"I don't want it," I muttered, holding up a hand to refuse.
His face fell, disappointment settling into the fine lines of his face like rainwater into cracks. His ears drooped slightly, and I could practically feel the lecture building in his throat. He was too polite to say it, but his eyes said it all: Don't be ungrateful. Just take it.
I could already hear the argument forming. If I kept refusing, he'd guilt me into taking it anyway. If I pushed back harder, he'd launch into some diatribe about how it was okay to accept help. And worse, the delivery guy standing by the counter was already giving me that look—like I was being difficult for no reason.
The goat sighed heavily, like he was reluctantly negotiating with a child. "Fine," he said, reaching into the bag and pulling out a single item. "At least take this. It's canned tomatoes. I know you like those."
I let out a sigh of my own, though mine was more pointed. This wasn't worth the fight. I snatched the can from his hand, the cold metal feeling heavier than it should, and gave a half-hearted grunt of acknowledgment. That was as close to a thank you as he was going to get.
I shuffled over to one of the small wooden tables near the window and plopped into the chair, letting the can thunk down onto the scratched surface. The bakeshop was quiet, save for the muted hum of the TV mounted in the corner. It flickered between static and a blurry morning news anchor, her overly styled hair practically a character of its own.
Her voice droned on, her tone carefully neutral as she delivered the same bleak updates as always. "The economy continues its decline, with local councils imposing yet another round of tariffs and taxes…"
I tuned her out, instead glancing around the shop. Outside, the rain had started—a light drizzle tapping against the glass. The delivery truck by the curb stood idle, its driver chatting with the goat. The world outside felt muted, like someone had turned the volume down on everything except the rain and the dull hum of fluorescent lights.
The anchor's voice dragged me back to the screen. "European refugees continue to arrive in record numbers, fleeing the latest conflict over tea regulations. Just years after the infamous coffee export wars…"
I snorted softly. Europeans, fighting over beverages again. If it weren't so tragic, it'd be funny. More of them were flooding into our colony every day, bringing their baggage and bad accents with them. I imagined the headlines from their side of the world: Tea Party Massacre or The Great Biscuit Betrayal.
The news shifted to population statistics, highlighting our sister colony in Australia. Two centuries ago, it had been bustling with 188 million sheep. Now? Just 63 million remained. A drop of over 100 million sheep is bad for our species.
I tried doing the math in my head, but the numbers danced away from me. I hated math. It was supposed to make sense, supposed to bring order to chaos, but it just reminded me of how bad things were.
And then there was the usual identity crisis that crept in whenever I thought too hard about it. Siberians were Asian, right? Or were we technically white? I could never keep up with how society wanted to categorize me this week. It felt like I was always shifting between being the oppressor or the oppressed, depending on who was yelling the loudest.
I shook my head, focusing instead on the can of tomatoes in front of me. Its cheerful label featured a cartoon tomato with a goofy grin, as if it were thrilled to be trapped inside like a fucking slave. I hooked my finger under the pull tab and gave it a gentle tug.
The tab snapped off instantly, leaving me holding a useless piece of metal.
I stared at the can in disbelief, then at the broken tab in my hand. "Of course," I muttered. "Perfect. Absolutely perfect."
This was supposed to be an easy-open can, a marvel of modern design. The kind of thing marketed for emergencies, promising convenience and simplicity. And yet, here it was, failing at the one job it had.
I turned the can over in my hands, half-expecting it to have some backup opening mechanism. But no. This was it. This was the pinnacle of consumer innovation: mediocrity wrapped in cute branding and shoved onto shelves.
A tiny laugh escaped me, bitter and sharp. This wasn't just a defective can—it was a metaphor. It was everything wrong with the world, condensed into metal and tomatoes.
I pocketed the can, the cold metal pressing against my ribs through my hoodie. I already knew what I was going to do with it.
"This is going straight into Mr. Aldrin's windshield," I muttered to myself.
Mr. Aldrin, my economics teacher, was a relentless advocate for cheap, mass-produced goods. "Volume is its own quality!" he'd proclaim with a smug grin, as if that was supposed to make sense. He'd go on and on about how cutting costs was the key to prosperity, ignoring the fact that everyone hated the flimsy socks and disposable junk his philosophy produced.
The thought of his face when he found a dent in his precious car from a can of defective tomatoes brought a flicker of satisfaction.
I stood up, shoving my chair back with a loud scrape. The goat and the delivery guy both looked over, their conversation pausing mid-sentence.
"You didn't even sit down to eat," the goat said, his brow furrowing.
"She probably just remembered some last-minute homework," the delivery guy offered with an easy shrug. "Or maybe she wants to get to class early."
The goat sighed, shaking his head. "Yeah, maybe. Still, I worry about her. She's such a hard worker."
I didn't bother correcting them. Let them think I was some overachieving student instead of a seething ball of annoyance with a can of vengeance in my pocket.
I stepped outside into the drizzle, the rain cool against my fur. The streets were still quiet, the world softened by the gray morning light. I turned away from my school, heading instead toward the domestic sheep's part of campus. My own classes—wild sheep territory—wouldn't start for a while, and I needed somewhere to burn off this irritation before it consumed me.
The rain picked up as I walked, each drop a faint tap against the pavement. My feet carried me forward, one step at a time, as the can pressed cold and heavy against my side.