Butcher's Work
A Gibberish writing prompt from FFF 3/28 : character with a scar
I stand in the shadow of the butcher’s shop. The smell of death folds into the damp air. The rain has stopped, but the water in the cobble stone still carries with it the pink hue of the butcher’s work.
Butchers work…
The tap of a steel capped cane echoes off the stone walls. I pull my cloak tighter and press into the shadows. He sees me, but doesn’t care. I’m nothing to him. I’m just meat he can put on the block. We all are…were. He hesitates and turns to me, resting both hand atop his cane.
“You there,” he calls to me. I say nothing and turn my back to him. I hear the “tsk” and large hands grab my shoulders. I am yanked off my feet, heels catching every cobble as he pulls me to the street and tosses me to the ground. I gather myself to stand when a hand like a bear paw digs into my shoulder. I remain on my knees. The metal tip of the cane pushes my hood back. “tsk, tsk. Now, I remember telling you to fetch me a particular snuff box from a particular man or die trying.” He kneels, holding himself steady with the cane. His eyes yellowed as well as the teeth behind his smile. The pointes of his pencil mustache lifting with his cracked lips. “I see no snuff box, yet I see you still alive. Am I to assume you are a failure? I have little use for failures here.”
“No,” I said. “I just need more time.”
“Time for what?”
“I have something in motion, but I need a little more time.”
“You have until sun up.”
“That’s plenty of time.” He clicks his tongue and stands. I remain on my knees as he turns, brushing the filth of interacting with commoners from his pristine black suite. His muscle knees me as he passes. I let him get his shots in.
The two men cross the street. Two loud raps of the cane against the door cause the spy hole to slide open then quickly close. The door opens just enough for them to slither through and is slammed shut.
I stand and signal to the head peaking out from around the corner. My brother hurries to the back to bar the back door. He is not a brave man, but we all have a threshold, a tolerance. Once crossed, we are cable of great, or terrible things.
I move back to the shadows and wait for the bell to toll the half hour. I pull the small pewter cross from my pocket. It was my little sister’s and my mother’s before that. All just meat on the chopping block.
My brother scurries over to me in the shadows.
“Is it done?”
“Yes.”
“Here.” I offer him the little cross. He picks it up and inspects my hand. His eyes widen. The scar covers my palm. I know that he is touching me, but I cannot feel it. I will need to prove I am one of them and to do so, I will need to show that I passed initiation. Pulling the iron from the fire was not as difficult as I thought it would be. There was a searing pain and then nothing. It was days following that tested my resolve.
“Are you sure? We can find another way?” I pat him on the cheek and step out into the street. I feel his sorrow pulling me back, but I have been pushed too far. There is only this for me now.
I step to the door and knock twice with my two knuckles. My heart beats in my ears as I wait. The small door slides open to reveal two beady eyes set above a warty nose. I hold my scarred palm up for him to inspect. He nods.
“The world of our sad Humanity may assume the semblance of a Hell*.” The little door closes and the larger one opens. I side step through. I wait for the man to bolt the door.
“Well, better get on with it.” He pushes my shoulder and points to the main room. The sights and smells of sin emanating from the ball room wrench my stomach. I draw my knife and slash the look out across the neck before he can sound an alarm. I stand in shock watching the life leave his eyes, gasping like a fish. I hear my brother bolting the door on the outside. No one is getting out. I pull the other knife from my boot. I am the butcher tonight and I better get on with it.
*The Premature Burial, Edgar Allen Poe