Page 333 of Phobia
Even in my fantasy, I don't call for her to stay. Not anymore. There is no time, as cold fingers circle the back of my neck and drag me back to the home only one of us has managed to get away from.
Chapter 2
October 2023
“Don't move.” I chuckle at my humorless joke as I swing the cleaver over the beef cadaver lying on the butcher's table in the large walk-in freezer.I’ve been at it all morning, working off the list with today’s specials. Halloween is coming in a few weeks. There is so much to plan for this season’s festivities.
The lump of meat doesn't budge at first, but I ain’t going nowhere without the thigh. I keep at it, gritting my teeth, sweat beading my forehead and chilling the back of my neck. My arms burn, and the handle of the cleaver is slipping from my hold slightly. I stop. I take a deep breath. I look at the mess I’ve made. I know exactly how to make a clean cut and sever between the bone and the cartridge, but I’m distracted.Have been for a while.
I close my eyes and let my fingers reacquaint themselves with the weight and feel of the handle of the cleaver.
I think about the boy. The one I’ve been passing by every morning after I park my truck in the alley behind the restaurant. The one who has his filthy blond locks tucked in a ratty black beanie. He is always near that corner, wrapped in a dirty-looking sleeping bag. A glimpse of his clothes tells me they are hardly appropriate for the impending arrival of winter. The boy is often bruised and stares at his feet, too embarrassed to look at the people tossing change in his guitar case.
Some mornings he sings, but it’s been happening less and less as the weather has gone bad.His voice is beautiful. This kid could be a fucking pop star if anyone actually cared about talent these days.
This past week, he’s only been holding the guitar, strumming it every once in a while, then clutching it to his chest. His fingers are probably too stiff from the cold to play.
He looks like he’s barely alive. He is so skinny his cheeks are sunken, his lips bloodied where he’s nervously chewed on them.
A man comes for him at dusk and the boy eagerly runs to climb into his old truck, but not before he gives him whatever money he has made begging.
This piece of shit takes it. His face holds a permanent sneer, but the boy never looks up in challenge. His lips never part in protest.
I’m furious.
At myself.
I’ve been a silent spectator for a good month now and I let it happen.
Every day at dusk he comes, pulling up in a rusty Chevy pickup truck. The back is filled with gardening tools, bags of topsoil and haphazardly tied fertilizer sacks. The logo of the company is hardly visible, painted on the driver’s door in faded gold,ETERNAL MAGNOLIAS - landscape services and consultations. One look at this asswipe, and I’m pretty sure there is nothing I’ll ever consider consulting him about.
I’ve resisted looking up the business, although, by the looks of the never-changing configuration of the menagerie he’s got stacked at the back, he mustn’t be too busy working up a sweat.
What is this kid doing with this man? How do they know each other? Why does he give him every single dime he’s made begging? What does he get in return?
“It's none of my business,” I mutter to myself. “None of my goddamn business.”
It's a fucking lie and I know it.I’ve made it my business ever since the day I began waiting for the truck, looking out from the back entrance, hidden in the shadow of the service corridor.
I deliver my final blow, imagining the guy from the truck. I want to cut the hand he uses to rob the boy of his meager earnings.
The thigh separates clean, and I shove it away, panting. I hang the rest back on the hook and slide it back into the electric smoker.
I press the button and the latch releases the door. I push past it with my shoulder, carrying the crate with the meat with both hands. I place it on the counter and peel the jacket off my shoulders.
My leather apron is stained with old spots of darkened brown blood. To the unfamiliar eye, it may look like it’s part of the aging material, but I know better. Not all of it is animal either.
My white Henley beneath is clean and pristine in contrast with my dark brown skin and the tattoos on my forearms.I stare at the dark roses crawling up from my knuckles, disappearing beneath the sleeve. I flex my fingers tightening them into fists. I try to relax and close my eyes, tipping my head back and attempting, yet again, to clear my mind, releasing an exasperated groan.
Deep fucking breaths, Delorean. Nice and easy. Just forget about him.
It’s not working.
At all.
In my mind’s eye, all I can focus on is this vivid fantasy of my fingers slowly tightening over the boy’s slender neck, keeping him in place, while my hungry eyes strip him bare, devouring every inch of his naked flesh. I’ve been thinking about him more and more each day.
I toss my gloves on the counter and scrub my face.
