Bone Sour
The moment the waitress steps over to take my order, I sniff the scent of menstrual blood lingering beneath the stench of grill smoke and fryer grease. My mouth waters more for her than it does the plates of meatloaf and country fried pork making the rounds of the fifties-themed diner. So intoxicated am I by her smell that I forget the reason she’s hovering at my elbow. It isn’t until she asks, “Do you need another minute, honey?”, that I snap from my trance.
She blows a bubble as pink as the neon lights lining the windows. Punctures the gum with her teeth. Pop! Licks the sticky dollop from her pouty lip. I squeeze the laminated menu until it squeaks, hankering for a taste of her fruit-flavored tongue.
I glance at the menu and order the first thing that catches my eye. “Steak, please.”
She scribbles on her pad. “How would you like it?”
I picture her flesh flayed, exposing the pink beneath. “Bloody,” I whimper.
She snorts. “That’ll give you worms.”
I smile, cheek muscles straining from the effort. “Then I’m good to go fishing.”
The waitress returns my smile. Her smile is genuine. The kind of smile that puts a person at ease.
Her name is Brandy.
I say her name beneath my breath: Brandy. Syllables as sweet as the liquor she’s named after. “Pretty,” I tell her.
She snorts again. “You can thank my daddy, mister. He’s the one who named me.” She taps the pad with her pen. “Have your food out in a jiffy. Just holler if you need anything.”
Brandy strolls to the kitchen, whistling along to the pop song playing on the jukebox. There’s enough meat on her bones to fill my freezer for weeks. Nice thick cutlets that’ll go perfect with a side of baked beans and mash potatoes.
When Brandy returns and slides the steak in front of me, she leans close enough for me to catch a whiff of her onion-y body odor. It takes all my willpower not to drag her onto the table and sink my teeth into her juicy flesh.
For a brief second, we catch each other’s eyes. “Is everything okay?” she asks.
“You’re new, right?” I blurt, afraid she’s seen through my disguise.
Brandy says she grew up in Gap Mills but lived in Blacksburg for the last ten years. Moved back here about a month ago on account of a bad breakup and a sick momma. Just started working at the Do-Wop the previous weekend.
“Anything else I can get ya?” she asks. Pop goes that pink bubblegum again.
I thank Brandy kindly for her service and fork a slice of steak into my mouth. It tastes sour, like it’s gone bad. Soon as she disappears into the kitchen, I spit the rancid morsel into a napkin. I should know better than to eat any animal that has a disease named after it.
I drop the morsel on the floor and kick it beneath the booth. Push my plate to the side, dig in my wallet, and toss enough cash for the bill and a modest tip before leaving.
A slight drizzle dampens my flannel, along with my mood, as I dart across the lot to my pickup. Once inside, I slam my fist against the dash. Dammit! How could I be such a chickenshit? She’s perfect. And yet I ran out of there like the kitchen’s on fire.
For a minute, I consider heading back inside. But what would I say? Sorry, I changed my mind, serve me another cut of that tainted meat.
I turn the ignition, rev the engine, peel from the lot, and head for home.
Gap Mills is an unincorporated territory deep in the woods of a mountain valley. I live down a dirt path appropriately named Mudd Hole Road. Swaths of rickety motorhomes blot the land where nothing much grows. Mine is painted robin egg blue and looks as if an enormous bird hatched from it.
I park in a pile of dead grass between two yellow birches. The second I step out of my car, my neighbor’s Pit, Rupert, begins scratching at the wooden fence separating our properties, barking a warning to stay on my side. I kneel and peer through the inch-wide crack. Laugh as the stupid mutt works himself into a frenzy, jumping up and down, snapping his jaws as if he’d like to chew me to bits.
My stomach grumbles. Rupert’s plump body would make a nice cut of brisket.
From the bag in the backseat of my pickup, I retrieve my skinning knife and creep back up to the fence, whistling for Rupert. “I got a treat for you, boy,” I say in the cheeriest tone possible. I reach my fingers through the slats to snag a hold of his collar, clutching my knife tightly in anticipation.
Crunch!
His canines pierce my skin. I pull back my hand as his teeth dig grooves from knuckle to nail. Tumble backwards on my ass and wrap my fingers in my shirt; a red puddle soaks through the cotton.
The filthy mutt snarls.
A porch light clicks on. My neighbor’s door swings open. “Rupert!” he snaps. I crawl behind my truck, hoping he hasn’t seen me. Rupert charges up the stoop, nails clacking against the wood steps.
“What the fuck is that on your mouth?” my neighbor asks Rupert. The dog barks in response. “Is that blood? What in kern hell you gotten into?”
I remain still despite the singing fires in my fingers. How would I explain to my neighbor why his dog bit me? Though we’ve lived next to each other for several years we’ve hardly spoken a word. I clutch my knife. I could just gut him. Roast his torso for dinner. But the motherfucker’s built like a brick shit house. Far too tough to take in a fight.
He calls Rupert inside and slams the screen door. Am I really that desperate that I’d eat a dog? My stomach answers with a groan.
I scamper to the side of my trailer and let myself in. Blood drips into the kitchen sink in a series of micro-splashes. I suck on my fingers, relishing the salty flavor. I grab the cleaver from the wall and stick my hand on the cutting board. Consider sautéing my digits in a pan with butter and rosemary. But despite my hunger, I don’t have the guts to finish what Rupert started.
I slam the cleaver into the cutting board and wash my wounds with cold water. Retrieve gauze from the linen closet and wrap my fingers, which proves difficult with one hand. Once finished, I grab a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard and stumble over to the living room, collapse on the couch, and turn on an episode of Buckmasters. Take a few slugs of Wild Turkey and blackout before the program ends.
The deathly stench of The Hillside Slaughterhouse blights the green pastures of cow country a half-a-mile in every direction. I’ve witnessed grown men double my size bend over and puke their guts on the side of the road at the first whiff; quit the job before they even stepped foot in the white brick building. But it’s the only place around here that pays a decent wage. Otherwise, you’re left scrounging to get by.
Carrying my tools in a canvas bag, I stroll through the barn entrance and head to the locker room, where I change into my sanitary garb. Inside the pen, workers stick the stunner pistols to the pigs’ heads, and knock them unconscious with a jolt from the bolt. They strap chains to their hooves, lift them in the air, and rotate them along the production line. I climb up the ladder to the platform, pull out my knife and cut each cow’s carotid artery—sever the main blood vessels near their hearts and bleed them dry. Once bled, I remove the hide, the head, then toss the innards into trash barrels lined on the floor. I perform my duties clean and methodically. It’s easy for bacteria to spread from within the carcass’ bones, spoiling the meat. The thought of it makes me ill. Not that I’d ever eat the dirty swine.
“Hey Cochran,” my supervisor Ronnie Becks shouts, lifting a decapitated pig’s head by the ears. “Isn’t this your girlfriend?” He puckers his lips and makes kissy noises.
My co-workers chuckle. They’re mostly rugged cowboy types. Men who pound a six-pack after work and hunt deer on the weekends.
“Don’t you want to give her a kiss?” Ronnie pushes the head at my face, once again eliciting a round of laughs.
I give the piggy a long look. “Isn’t this your wife, Ronnie? She always was sweet on me.”
The crew hollers.
Ronnie shouts at the men to get back to work. He shoves the head into my chest. “You’re on clean up duty,” he says. “I expect this floor spotless by the end of the day, or these pigs won’t be the only thing losing their heads.”
I toss the head into the garbage and spend the rest of the day sweeping guts.
“Where did you disappear to the other night?” Brandy asks as I perch myself on a stool in front of the Do-Wop’s counter.
I take a breath through my nostrils, inhaling her natural fragrances, and remind myself to stay calm. “Got called to an emergency at work.”
She arches a penciled brow. “What is it you do?”
“Meatpacker.”
“And you got called away for an emergency?” Brandy giggles. “Did a cow break loose?”
“A batch of meat spoiled,” I say.
Her haughty grin droops into a frown. “Happen often?”
“No, no, no,” I backpedal. “Someone didn’t store it in the cooler properly.”
My explanation doesn’t seem to calm her concerns. “Remind me not to buy my meat there.”
I haven’t been here for five minutes and already things are going badly. “I promise, it’s fine.” I place three fingers over my heart. “Scout’s honor.”
“What happened?” Brandy points to my bandaged fingers.
“Minor accident,” I say.
Before she can dig deeper, I ask about the pies spinning in the glass case behind the register. Brandy perks up. It seems there’s nothing she loves talking about more than pies. She loves all types of pies, but in her opinion, nothing beats good old-fashioned cherry. With whip cream on top, of course. I order myself a slice, along with a hot cup of black coffee.
While she takes a table’s order, I picture dipping Brandy in a vat of boiling oil until her skin blisters, nice and crisp, then smearing honey mustard across her thighs and pouring barbecue sauce over her ribs before squeezing her head between a pair of sesame seed buns.
Because it’s a slow night, Brandy and I strike up a conversation. She bemoans having to care for her invalid momma, who’s in a wheelchair but otherwise scoots around okay. Just needs a little help taking a bath and cleaning the house and getting in and out of her chair. The house was a landfill before she arrived, Brandy says. You would’ve thought raccoons moved in. Now her momma just complains that she can’t find anything. Wishes Brandy would’ve left her shit alone.
I lie about spending one weekend every month visiting my folks in Summersville. “I guess it’s our duty to be there for our parents as they get older,” I say.
“It’s not that I mind doing things for her,” Brandy says, pouring me another cup of steaming coffee. “But since I’ve come home, I haven’t had a lick of fun. Is that too much to ask?”
“Everyone deserves a break now and then. Otherwise, you’re liable to go nutty.”
Brandy nearly bursts into tears. I’m the first person she’s met in this town who understands what she’s going through.
I picture her smothered in whip cream and dig my fork into the fleshy crust of the pie. Cherry filling hemorrhages from the inside. I scoop a forkful and shovel it into my mouth. Bask in the warm, tangy flavor.
Over the next few weeks, I make the occasional pit stop by the Do-Wop whenever I see Brandy’s beat-up Crown Victoria parked there. On slow nights, I stuff a napkin beneath my chin and listen to her rant about her pathetic life while I picture bits of her in whatever food I order. Brown eyes floating in a bowl of soup, fingers mixed in with a plate of fries, intestines slurped in an order of spaghetti.
Sometimes Brandy wishes she’d never come back to Gap Mills. Despite all she does for her poor invalid momma, the woman treats Brandy like a servant, ordering her around worse than the customers who visit the diner. The only peace Brandy gets is the twenty-minute drive to and from work.
And don’t get her started on her ex-boyfriend. That son-of-a-bitch keeps calling, begging her to reconsider. Promises that he’s changed his ways. But Brandy’s taken one too many beatings to know that ain’t true. The man has a violent streak hotter than burnt rubber on asphalt. Sometimes he hit her just because he was in a mood.
“I’m finished being target practice,” Brandy says while filling saltshakers. “Next time a man tries to take a shot at me, he better be prepared to take one back just as hard.”
For my part, I fill Brandy’s head with half-truths. The last I knew my parents lived in Summerville, but I haven’t spoken with them in ages. They’ve had nothing to do with me since I was arrested for peeping on our neighbor through her bathroom window. But as far as Brandy’s concerned, I visit often. I show her photos I downloaded from their social media accounts. She wonders why I’m not in the pictures. “I’m camera shy,” I say. She finds this hard to believe, so I photoshop myself into a couple to show her.
One afternoon, we get to talking about pets. I play a video of Rupert in the neighbor’s yard digging holes. “He’s a feisty furball,” I say, feigning adoration. Brandy can’t wait to meet him.
The more time I spend with Brandy, the more I like her. She’s like a favorite meal you know is bad for you, but you crave anyway. I can’t stop wondering what she’d taste like. How it’d feel to grind her flesh between my teeth. To have her inside me.
A week later, I ask her out on a date.
“You serious?” She taps her pen against her pad. “Well, I do have Thursday night off. But I don’t know. Momma might get upset.”
Feeling the opportunity slipping between my fingers, I say, “But you said you never get to go anywhere. Isn’t it time you do something for yourself?”
Brandy nods her head enthusiastically. “You’re right,” she says. “Thursday it is then.”
“Alright,” I say.
Got to admit I look pretty dashing in my get-up: a striped button-up tucked in a pair of Wranglers and complemented with cowboy boots. I brush the few loose strands of hair over my scalp. Spray on some cologne I found buried in my dresser. Check to make sure my breath doesn’t reek.
When I arrive at the Do-Wop, I scan the dining room. Cooks in white paper hats flip burgers in the kitchen while waitresses carry steaming plates to booths. A few old timers round the counter, sipping coffee and yakking. But there’s no sign of Brandy.
Just as I’m about to leave, the bathroom door opens and out she appears, wearing a summery floral dress with her hair into a bun atop her head, loose strands falling around her long, goose neck. “How do I look?” She twirls.
“Wonderful,” I say, biting back my excitement.
Blood rushes into her cheeks. My stomach aches with sharp pains. I offer my arm. “Are you ready for a night of fun?” I escort her to my truck.
We drive thirty minutes to this place called LeRoy’s. The restaurant is decorated like a barn, red wood siding and a pitched triangular roof. You almost expect a cow to walk out and ask what cut you want. We’re seated near the stone fireplace. I tap my foot nervously to the bluegrass band on stage. Brandy smiles, but I can’t tell if she likes the place or is being polite. I grab a menu and ignore my growling stomach.
We order a couple beers. She has the baked chicken, and I settle for a rib eye (bloody). I don’t say much during the meal—just listen to Brandy complain about her momma’s incessant criticisms about her weight. “No man wants a woman who’s skin and bones,” I reassure her. My sentiment pleases Brandy, though she’s concerned about my appetite. While she scarfs down her entire meal, I pick at the cow. It’s overcooked.
“Are you feeling okay?” she asks.
I wipe grease from her chin and lick it off my thumb. “I’m fine,” I say. “Just not hungry.”
Not for this meal, anyway.
“That’s why you’re rail thin,” she says. “We need to change that.”
Yes indeed, we do.
After dinner, I drive Brandy back to her car at the Do-Wop. It’s well after closing time and there’s no one else in the lot. The stars are out in clusters over the mountains, like Peeping Toms peering into the windows, hoping one of us will make a move. Brandy scoots toward me, leaning her body against mine. I grab her shoulders and clamp my mouth around her lips.
The bitter taste of her saliva drools down my throat. Sharp pangs stab my abdomen. My clammy hands tremble as I grope her breasts. I suck hard on her bottom lip.
Brandy pushes me at arm’s length. “Slow down,” she says, half-teasing.
I apologize. Remind myself to stay calm. To remain in control. But the smell of her sex arouses my appetite. We go at it again. I bite down on her lower lip. Salty blood squirts into my mouth. Brandy pulls away, slaps me in the face. I lunge for her. She pushes the handle, shoves open her door, and tumbles from the truck. Before I can get out, she’s up on her feet, running to her car, hand over her bloody mouth, shouting at me to “stay the fuck away!”
I tumble out after her, begging her to wait. She locks her door and fumbles for her keys. I bang on her window. Plead with her to allow me to explain. Without glancing in my direction, she starts her engine, shifts into drive, and peels out of the Do-Wop. I chase her down the road, screaming for her to come back, until her taillights vanish around the bend.
I arrive home to Rupert’s incessant barking. I’ve never heard a dog with a more annoying pitch: a high yap that pierces the ears. I hiss at him to shut the fuck up, but once you get Rupert started there is no stopping him. He’s like a car alarm you can’t shut off.
Well, I can fix that.
I head straight to the bathroom and rifle through the cabinet until I find the Benadryl. In the kitchen, I smear two hunks of bread with peanut butter and sandwich the pills between them, then creep up to the fence and drop the treat through the crack. Rupert devours the suckers. Fifteen minutes later, he’s snoring soundly.
Since sampling Brandy, I smell her on my hands, taste her on my tongue, feel her blood flow through my veins, hear her heart beating in my ears. The food I try to eat for sustenance doesn’t compare to her flavor. It’s dry and tasteless.
But when I drop by the Do-Wop, Brandy hides in the back. I sit in her section, but a different waitress takes my order. I ask to speak to Brandy. “She’s busy right now, mister,” the waitress tells me.
I go outside and wait in my car until Brandy comes out for a cigarette break. I rush toward her, calling her name. She cowers by the kitchen doorway, shrinking like she’s scared I might attack her. I hold up my hands to show her I mean no harm. She’s wearing a skin-colored bandage over her bottom lip. I fight the urge to peel it off and suck the flecks of skin.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” she asks, glancing into the kitchen.
“I want to talk,” I say.
She nervously puffs on her cigarette. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
“The other night?” I wave away the smoke she blows into my face. “I thought we had a good thing going.”
“Until you tried chewing my goddamn lip off,” she says.
I babble, trying to find an excuse. “I got nervous,” I say. “It’s been a long time since…you know.”
“Yeah, no shit.” Brandy grinds the cigarette with her heel. “I gotta go.”
“Wait!”
The cook strolls out from the restaurant and, upon seeing me, asks Brandy if everything’s okay. I don’t catch her reply. I’m already headed towards my truck.
Later that night, I pull a 10-pound brisket from the freezer. Marinate it in a BBQ rub and cook it in the oven. Watch as it crisps and browns. Despite my attempt to silence the furry little fucker, Rupert barks louder than ever. It’s like he’s right under my window, scratching at the siding.
I’ve always prided myself on my cooking—but for some reason, the brisket doesn’t taste right. Too tough and gamey. After only a few bites, I dump the whole thing in the trash. Then I run to the bathroom, stick my finger down my throat, and vomit.
About an hour into work, I’m clutching my sticking knife, my apron splattered with blood, when a woman begins screaming. My co-workers continue with their duties as if nothing out of the ordinary is happening.
The chains on the rail-system rattle and the hoist clunk-a-clunks forward as if something big is struggling to break free. Then she comes towards me, strung upside down, stripped naked, thrashing against the shackle hitched through her ankles. I visually mark the cuts: chuck, flank, round, tenderloin. The hoist halts with her directly in front of me.
Arms outstretched, Brandy pleads with me not to kill her. Snot bubbles from her nostrils as she cries. “I don’t want to be anyone’s dinner,” she whimpers.
I thrust my knife into her jugular. Her eyes widen as she sucks for breath. I lean in close enough to smell the fruit-flavored bubble gum and pucker my lips…
“Are you making out with that hog?” Ronnie stomps toward me, clipboard in hand.
I wake from the daydream inches from the fleshy snout and tiny raisin eyes of a dead pig. My co-workers pucker their lips and make smooching sounds. “Stick it in her,” one of them shouts. More laughs and jokes follow. I release my grip on the hog’s bristly hair.
“I knew you were a sick bastard, but a goddamn pig,” Ronnie says, slapping his clipboard against his leg.
I shake my head. “Thought I saw some discoloration.”
Ronnie gives the hog a sniff. “Smells fine to me.” Then he sniffs me. “Sure you’re not smelling yourself?” He grimaces, a mouthful of nicotine-stained teeth.
I grip the handle of my knife tightly. Consider jamming the tip into Ronnie’s throat. Instead, I laugh like the joke’s not on me. “You got me there, Ronnie.”
Ronnie glances up and down at the pig. “Alright, enough of the fooling around.” He whispers into my ear. “And leave your sick perversions at home.”
I wait for the next hog to move along the chain. I grab her by the ear and stab her in the neck.
Twenty minutes before the Do-Wop closes, I park next to the furniture store across the street, slip on a pair of gloves, and grab my tool bag from the passenger’s seat. I creep through the shadows of the woods at the edge of the lot, slip around back to where Brandy’s car is parked, and jimmy the door with a putty knife and a straightened coat hanger. The lock thumps open. No alarm. I slip into the back, duck beneath the seats, pull out a stunner gun, and wait.
It feels like hours, but the staff finally pours out of the diner, saying goodnight before splitting off to their separate vehicles. Once in the car, Brandy tosses her apron in the back, draping it over my neck. Still, I don’t move. Don’t flinch. Don’t breathe.
I wait until she starts the ignition, pulls out of the lot, and makes it around the curve. Then I raise my head. Soon as she forks right, and the others’ headlights disappear behind us, I hop up from my hiding place. We catch each other’s eyes in the rearview mirror. A look of horror pales Brandy’s face. She slams on the brakes. I fly over the seat and ram my head against the radio hard enough to crack the dial.
Brandy races from the car, screaming for help. Lights flood the backyard of one of the houses. I give chase, blood trickling from a cut on my forehead, and tackle her before she can get far. I slide my arm around her throat, push the barrel of the pistol to the back of her head, and pull the trigger. Air hisses, the bolt ejects. Thump! Brandy slumps in my arms as a stream of blood leaks down her face. A woman barges out of her backdoor and demands to know what the hell is going on. I hide in the darkness and wait for her to go back inside before dragging Brandy back to the car—which is no small feat. I shove her in the backseat. I jump into the open driver’s side and haul ass out of there.
I park behind the white brick building of the slaughterhouse so no one passing by can see the car. Some of the livestock stir at the crackle of tires rolling over gravel. A whiff of blood floats on the wind beneath the stench of manure. I drag Brandy’s limp body around to the side entrance, which I jammed open with a wedge early in the day and prayed no one would notice. I’d be screwed if someone locked it.
I click the lights and turn on the machines. The slaughterhouse whirs to life. I drag Brandy’s body to the cattle hoist. Drop her there while I wrangle a hook to pierce her ankles. As I grab the chain I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. The moment I turn around, Brandy’s fist cracks me in the jaw, spinning my head and knocking my teeth loose. I tumble onto the bleed elevator. My shirt catches on the track and pulls my collar tight around my throat.
Brandy jumps on top of me, pins my hips beneath her weight, and pummels my face, knuckles hitting flesh sounding like a wet rag being slapped against a brick wall. I struggle to remain conscious as the room around me spins and my eyes swell shut. “I’m going to kill you, you goddamn butcher!” She snags the stunning pistol from my waist, aims it at my face, and pulls the trigger. I turn my head. The bolt smashes into my cheek and knocks a couple molars free. I hack a bloody ball of teeth onto the belt.
As we’re lifted toward the evisceration platform, we wrestle for the pistol. I hold Brandy’s wrists as she tries to press the gun to my head. She jams a knee into my nuts. The sharp impact shoots through my groin and kicks me in the abdomen. I squeal like a pig. She presses the gun’s barrel into my shoulder and pulls the trigger. The splintering of my clavicle sounds like an actual gunshot. Searing hot flames engulf my neck. My scream echoes throughout the facility.
Brandy aims the pistol at my forehead. I clamp my bandaged hand over the barrel. The same hand Rupert sunk his teeth into. The bolt shatters the bones in one brutal punch. I seethe in agony. Before she can pull the trigger again, I slide the knife from my waistband and sit up, tearing my shirt collar, then grab the back of her head, and stab her deep in the neck. Blood sprays my face. The pistol clatters to the floor below. We’re dumped from the conveyor onto the platform.
Clutching my broken shoulder with my broken hand, I limp over to where Brandy is flopping in a heap. She coughs as she struggles to yank the knife from her neck, eyes bulging from their sockets as blood pours down her uniform. It’s hard to watch, even for me. No animal should suffer like this.
I sit on her back, pull her head up by the hair, and finish the job in one swift motion.
It’s around three in the morning by the time I finish cleaning the facilities. I carry the packaged meat over my good shoulder to Brandy’s car, place it in the trunk then lock the facilities, before driving back to the Furniture Store and transferring the meat to my vehicle. I take brandy’s Crown Victoria down a long gravel path and hide it in a thick area of woods. It’s damn near sunup when I get back to my truck and floor it the hell out of there before anyone spots me.
When I get home, I pop a few painkillers and tear an old shirt to make an arm sling. Except for two decent size chops, I place the meat in my freezer. The chops I season with garlic powder, paprika, salt and pepper. Pan fry them in canola oil along with a couple over-easy eggs. My stomach groans as the chops turn from red to a crisp brown. I’m salivating by the time I flop them on my plate.
I sit at the dining table that overlooks my neighbor’s yard. A frayed leash sits tied to a stake in the yellow grass. I slice into the first chop. A small puddle of boiling blood puddles beneath it. Steam rises off my knife. I fork a tiny sliver, bring it to my lips, close my eyes, and take a bite. An unpleasant sourness curdles my stomach. I spit the chewed wad into a napkin. Rush over to the trashcan and dry heave. It takes a while for me to stop gagging, but once I do, I take my utensils and slice open the chop at the middle. Bacteria tints the meat green.
“No, no, no!” I shout at my empty kitchen.
I throw open the freezer. The fruity stench hits me square in the face. Once again, I gag, but this time my stomach rebels and I vomit a stream of pure bile into the sink. I open a window, but nothing can get rid of the odor. I cut open the rump. A green tinge, the color of mold, encircles the hip socket. The rest of the meat is the same.
I shove my plate off the table. It shatters against the floor. Rupert barks next door.
During my tantrum, the bandage slipped off my hand. The wounds on my fingers are infected. Greening. Bone sour. But this can’t be possible. It would mean…
I grab the cleaver off the wall. Place my hand on the cutting board. I don’t know if I can do this. But I have to. I need to know. Don’t be a coward, I tell myself. It’s for your own damn good.
I raise the cleaver.
On the count of three, I bring the blade down on my wrist.
The screen door squeaks open. My eyes flutter open as nails clack across the linoleum. Rupert trots through the puddles of blood, leaving a trail of red paw prints that wind between the forest of hacked-up limbs, and comes to where I’m seated on the floor, leaning against the sink cabinets. He stops inches in front of my nubs, tail wagging, panting. I raise my remaining hand in greeting. The furry bastard starts barking.
From next door, my neighbor calls out. “You’re in trouble now, buddy,” I tell the stupid mutt, but he’s no longer paying attention. He paws at one of my severed feet. Turn and sniffs at the rotten stub of my thigh—once, twice…
…And takes a nice, big bite.
About the Author
J.R. Blanes is the author of the novel, Portraits of Decay, forthcoming from Ruadan Books on October 21, 2025. His short fiction has been published in Tales to Terrify, The No Sleep Podcast, Allegory, Creepy, and now Macabre Magazine, among others. He lives in Chicago with his wife and their neurotic dog. You can visit him at jrblanes.comand ruadanbooks.com. His linktr.ee is jrblanes 76.