Pork Chops

Although he couldn’t save his wife, Matthew said he was lucky to escape the woods. Later, it came out that, on the first day of the hike, he hit her on the head with a stone and pushed her off a cliff. Apparently, it was planned all along. Her body struck the rock wall twice, then crashed through the canopy of trees below. Some of her short mousey hairs stuck to the stone, which he chucked after her. He timed twenty minutes on his watch then called for help. No one came. Even so, he kicked loose pieces of dirt from the edge of the trail, so it would appear, if anyone looked, that he’d tried to scramble down after her.

Uncle Dan asked why he’d wanted to murder his wife and Matthew shook his head and said he wasn’t sure; it seemed for the best. He’d not loved her anymore. There’d been something about how she ate pork chops, nibbling deliberately round the bone, her teeth snipping together with little clicks. When they’d first met, it was something cute he’d noticed, but soon…just the way she’d keep going until each bone was stripped. It got at him, until he could barely stand to be in the same room when she ate.

“You killed her because of how she’d clean a bone,” Aunt Babs asked. She laughed, clicking her own teeth.

“No”, said Matthew. “Not just that, that’s one thing. One of a million little things that all add up. You must know?”

He looked between us all, hoping to find one understanding face. He’d had the same desperate look when he burst out of the woods, filthy and hungry, his expensive hiking clothes ripped and bloody, falling to pieces as he walked. As he’d made his way back along the trail, he’d realized the map and compass were in his wife’s knapsack; the water too. Even on well-used trails, it’s easy to go astray.

“Please understand,” he said. Before he rolled her over the edge, he told us about how her jittering heels cut half-moons in the dirt.

“Please.” He said that word a lot. Please give him medicine. Please give him water. Please give him food. Please loosen the shackle. Please unlock the cage. Please, please, please. He’d beg, with tears tracking white lines through the dirt on his face.

He’d whisper it or, sometimes, scream it at the top of his voice. When it got too much, Uncle Hector stamped off his porch to the court house lawn, and hosed him with cold water until he stopped.

“People are looking for me.” Matthew often said that too. At work, he was an important guy. They’d find his car. He’d say it to whoever walked past, although in the cage, forced to squat down, the wooden slats digging into his back, he could only see feet. Youngsters might stop to watch him, but after a month, they would also get bored. By then, he wouldn’t chatter so much. The screaming fits went first, then the bargaining, until he only let out an occasional sob. During the second month, we’d walk by and hear him muttering to himself. One day, he started screaming again. This time about his wife, begging her to forgive him, then cursing her for ruining his life.

Uncle Barnes came out the barbers with the cape still round his neck, intent on hosing Matthew, but joined the group gathered to listen.

It was when Matthew became interesting, we let him out. We kept him collared and chained. Not that he went far, after we ate his legs. We liked to unsnap his chain and watch his determined crawl: on his elbows, chopping toward the trees, dragging those stumps behind. We’d let him get as far as the long grass then scoop him up and carry him, sobbing, back to town.

Normally strangers don’t keep long. But Matthew fawned and begged, so we kept him as a pet. After dinner, we’d prop him on a tree stump and make him recite again about his wife. After, we’d throw scraps of bone and laugh as he fought with the dogs to gobble them up.

Now, we honor him. His skull fragments sit in pride of place. Today, Uncle Judge rolled the knuckle bones and they chose Matthew. The honor’s never gone to anyone from out of town before, so Uncle Judge rolled the bones again. Again, they wanted Matthew. Tradition Dictates. So, we killed a dog and painted Matthew with its blood. Uncle Barnes pierced Matthew through his genitals and tongue and wove a chain of grass garlands between the holes. Two Uncles lifted him onto the dinted, antique shield and we carried him in procession to the cave. We closed our eyes, joined hands and sang the calling song. We kept singing even when we heard the metal sound of ancient hooves that clambered from the mouth of the cave. The melody of Matthew’s screams wove perfectly through our song as the cave god cracked his bones with its long teeth. We are all jealous of his good luck.

About the Author

James Mason lives in Worcester, UK. He has an MA in Creative Writing. His stories have appeared elsewhere, including The Phare, Horla and Flash Phantoms, as well as anthologies by Wicked Shadow, Retreat West, Creative Mind and Cranked Anvil.