By Jagger van Vliet
(TW: violence, blood)
So, we watch The Butcher as he works.
His glare is not nearly an abusive one, and truthfully, it is far too full of ease for such an early morning. Here, he is too full of life for his own good.
The Butcher in this shop is a larger fellow, and this is to be expected. It has been supposed that all butchers must have this heavy-chested build to them, for he is a towering thing indeed, too much in the arms and the neck. Yet, as if to show that he means nothing by this, his face remains always fixed in a plain smile. It is as though he is attempting, quite earnestly, to offset any fearsome image he might be misfortunate enough to present.
His job is not enviable by any degree. It is a bloody sport, violent by default, such that the kind Butcher cannot help but end his days covered in sickly entrails. It is a shame, for he really is a gentle thing, lumbering to be sure, but harmless in all. He is, in truth, an awfully-burdened man. To be born into such a colossal frame truthfully precludes him from any normal profession. He certainly cannot audition for the ballet, nor can he hope to be a jockey. To a certain discerning person, this might be seen as a terribly upsetting thing indeed.
All the same, this is perhaps putting too much humanity onto The Butcher. After all, he himself seems well at ease with his life. He is general in all ways, well-liked, and dutifully trusted by a wealth of regular patrons.
If one were to watch him work, his calm would seem almost striking. Often, he must commit himself to the wretched work of chopping and hacking at delivered meats. It appears to be an intense ordeal, and despite this, The Butcher is, without concern, nearly always placid. Even in going about this cutting, he is remarkably tender, as though he does not nearly relish in this work. He has an effect about him that suggests he has never been upset in his life. This is, surely, what makes him a decent father to his son and a decent partner to his husband. He is a beast, only in appearances, so that when his little boy comes running through his shop, there is only love in his gaze. Though he is made to work a grisly job, one of blood and bones, he is still ever-tender to the boy.
Today, at the present moment, The Butcher is showing his boy how to properly score a flank of pork. They stand together before a weighty shoulder, each examining the thing carefully. The Butcher is pointing to certain areas and explaining gently how best to position the knife’s blade. Here, the boy inclines his own knife, never once cutting the meat but merely pantomiming so that his father might correct him to the proper motion. It is a lovely dance, one too full of warmth for its own good. The Butcher is watching his boy with pride swimming behind his eyes. And in the boy’s eyes, there is a hunger—a strange focus on the flank of meat.
As though he cannot help it, when the boy successfully scores the meat, The Butcher shouts triumphantly, clapping the child’s shoulders. The boy stands straighter under The Butcher’s gaze, still staring at the meat.
Amidst all of this, there is a truck parked squarely before The Butcher’s shop. On routine, a shipment is in the process of being unloaded. It is a curious instance whereupon The Butcher assumes a tone that is unlike his own. Of course, he doesn’t bark orders, for he could never be so callous. It is merely a deepened tone, which he develops when directions must be given. His boy enjoys this evidently, for the child looks in wonder at his father.
The workers charged with unloading this week’s shipment do not seem put off by The Butcher. They know him well, and so they smile warmly to him and slip candies to the boy. There is an air of familiarity about The Butcher’s shop. These workers have known The Butcher for years, becoming close with the man in a way that only ever compounds over time. This delivery route is well established, such that The Butcher and the workers seem to even expect what will be said to each other.
“How’s the kid?” a worker shouts.
The Butcher, before the words have settled, replies, “He keeps me young!” The same lines will be delivered next week and the week after that until the boy has grown into a man.
The Butcher sends his boy to play now, as it is the case that the workers are wont to swear, whereupon being charged with hauling a particularly heavy cut of meat. The Butcher’s breath catches now. It is a small thing, but given that he remains always composed, it is decidedly curious to hear the wind stop dead in his throat. Perhaps one would assume The Butcher has just gone out of breath. There is no reason to suspect that anything of concern has happened when all that has been heard is a little gasp.
However, beyond his momentary gasp, here The Butcher’s face is stricken with fright. It is an actually horrifying visage, unfamiliar to The Butcher, so that all the muscles in his face appear to be confused at exactly how to contort themselves. He is looking downward, through spectacles, into a box. The box looks innocent enough, no different than the others, which are always delivered from the truck. Yet, in having opened the box, The Butcher seems utterly beside himself.
The workers have noticed now, and they are moving to The Butcher’s side. Yet, as the workers look down, they, too, are set into immediate panic. One worker retches, though nothing comes up. The Butcher’s complexion, usually ruddy and pink, is paler than ever.
“What will we do with it?” a worker has now asked The Butcher. There is trembling in his words.
“Do we know what meat it is?” another asks. He is the one who retched before, and it seems that despite his disgust, he has come back to stare once again.
The Butcher shakes his head to both of these questions. Paler than pale he is, so strained now that one might almost feel bad for the man. He has only ever been a kindly butcher, made to work a job of violence without any drop of malice to speak of. He is the perfect man for the job in this respect. Any lowly fellow might find their character corrupted by years spent cutting and bludgeoning. Against all odds, The Butcher has made a career of this and remained still gentle as ever.
“Is it… edible?” the first worker asks.
“Suppose we just throw it out and forget about it.”
There is a muted shuffling as the workers and Butcher all consider this prospect. They seem to be genuinely appraising the idea.
“It’s simply too dreadful,” The Butcher murmurs, pressing great fingers to his temple.
“I can dispose of it,” offered one of the workers, and there was a singular note of hope to this.
The Butcher shakes his head again, and the workers collectively sink in disappointment. In all this time, every word and every offered solution had been spoken into the space between them, for no one could wrench themselves from the box.
Almost at once, The Butcher pulls himself from the trance, remembering something suddenly.
“Son?” he shouts, looking about wildly for a moment.
“Yes, sir?” a little voice replies from the corner.
Here, the boy is happily undisturbed from his toys. Relief spills into The Butcher’s face before he painstakingly brings his gaze back to the box. It would appear he had almost forgotten how vile the contents were, for there is a shudder which comes involuntarily to him now.
“I will score it,” The Butcher decides, with the distinct tone of a mortician.
“You needn’t. It can be thrown out just as easily.”
It seems that this worker was still just as pleased with the idea of never seeing the meat again. Almost eagerly, he reaches to take the box, and at this, The Butcher shakes his head once more. He has made up his mind. It can be sensed now: that familiar repose which comes over The Butcher while he works. He becomes suddenly delicate, mournful almost. Or rather, more to the point, he is supremely respectful of his duties, aware at all times that there is every potential for brutality. Yet, against all odds, he never dissolves into cruelty, remaining upright and always pensive.
So, this familiar demeanour takes hold of The Butcher. He has decided to go ahead with his work, and it shall be done without fail. He takes up the knives, which hang idly when not in use. He sharpens these knives, and the workers allow him some distance. The rare and striking sound of metal peals like a church bell, and there is only silence in between.
Finally satisfied, The Butcher selects the foremost knife and settles himself before the box once more. It appears his body cannot act of its own accord, for the moment he reaches towards the box, his hand retracts at once. It seems he wishes to go about this as he has a hundred times before. The Butcher’s mind can nearly be seen, trying hard to warp this moment into something more casual, more routine.
Once again, his hand goes out, forming into a stiff claw with which to pluck the meat from within. And again, there is a retreat, so now it is The Butcher who looks close to retching. But now, The Butcher has made a new decision. He sets down the knife slowly, and the moment his hand has left the hilt, he steps back at once. All in the span of a second, his shoulders collapse inwards, and he begins to weep. No one could have ever pictured a man like this crying out. The workers can do nothing to console The Butcher as he goes about groaning tearfully.
Yet, as The Butcher weeps and the workers watch, there is a moment where no one in the shop is watching the boy. He has left his corner and his toys and moves silently. As though possessed, he is quiet as a creche, as the grave. As the men watch and the Butcher weeps, the boy’s form floats through the shop on a curious wind. Somehow, he seems vacant, weightlessly curious and ghostly. It is only when he has reached the box, stands before it, and has gasped, just like The Butcher, that he is finally discovered.
Now his head is downturned, his eyes grown large at the sight of the box’s contents. A sharp panic arises, and some worker moves to shield the box from his view. Only now, he is pausing, for there is something within the boy’s eyes which strikes him as particular.
The boy’s eyes are not wide in horror, nor shock, nor any other remotely repulsed expression. He is eyeing the contents of the box with a hunger. Never has a more ravenous effect been present on the boy’s face. It is a vision that is alien on the face of a child.
The Butcher is stopped in action. He seems compelled to stop the boy, urged by his instinct to rip the child away and make him forget. But The Butcher does not move at all. He is standing, hunched, with wide, watchful eyes.
And when The Butcher’s boy draws up the knife, the shop takes its collective breath. It is understood that something must be done about it all. The workers, and even The Butcher, realize that a child must not be left with a knife. They know this, and yet they are still. They are waiting forever in this terrible, vacuous uncertainty.
And the boy has brought the knife down, as Excalibur, as some great, magnificent blade. He brings the knife downward, and there is the sound of tendons and sinew. There are the dullest thuds and cuts that are born of meat. Of flesh. The child is hacking at the meat, plunging the knife down in perfect strikes. He is not laughing, but there is, displayed across his face, a frozen cry of delight. He is gleeful as he works. He is manic, nearly hysteric, as he goes about spiking the contents of the box. He does not even remove whatever sits inside; he merely reaches the knife into the box and draws it out seconds after, covered in a new and striking coat of blood. This red, oily stuff sticks to everything: to his hands, and the knife blade, and to his young, fresh face.
This goes on and on, for minutes that exist forever. Minutes in which no one quite understands what has occurred or what will soon occur thereafter. There is something silvery-flecked or metallic upon the collective tongues. A smell that dissolves into red cloves or salt; here is the aroma of health or something fouler. Every person present seems to retch now, or maybe they wish to leave the store entirely and never come back. But still, they watch.
The boy is reaching his crescendo now, perfectly bayonetting the meat in large swinging motions. Blood sprays widely, for he does not look when he brings the blade up. With every plunge, the boy’s face grows more carnal, more incessantly joyous. And then it is not joy but a certainty. The motions are slowing, and the boy is staring down at his work. Reflected back is a curious pink light and the boy’s face is now a constellation of reddish marks.
“Son!” the strangled voice of The Butcher cries out.
Startled, the boy has stopped altogether, and now he turns to his father. The boy still holds onto the knife as though protecting it. But he considers his father now, and there is pride in the boy’s face. He seems almost to be holding himself upright, esteemed, as though this were expected of him. Still, his eyes are frenzied and alive.
The Butcher, for his part, says not a word. His face has gone through too much today, so now it is still and waiting. It is sternly examining his son, who stands taller now still. The boy has not allowed for the knife to fall, so he is active and eerily electric. He looks full, as though one had just pulled him from a good meal.
The Butcher moves close to his son, and there is a moment where he might have been within his rights to yell or berate the boy. The Butcher has never been violent, but still, it seems only natural. Yet, he only looks at the knife—appears to be remembering every lesson he has ever given the boy. Reflected in The Butcher’s eyes, he is realising now that the boy could never have known the difference. The boy had always watched his father, and foolishly, The Butcher had thought the boy was simply proud. But the boy had only seen violence– unable to know that The Butcher felt no true anger in his profession. The Boy has only seen blood, bones, and flashing silver.
So, strangely, The Butcher takes the boy’s hands and leads him over to a great metal sink. Here, The Butcher is washing his son’s face and his hands. He mumbles to the boy that he will get him new clothes, but nothing more is then said. He speaks nothing of what has occurred, focusing solely on only the boy’s hands. Finally satisfied, The Butcher examines his boy once and offers a smile that is distant and strained.
Then, he straightens and clears his throat. There is a newfound clarity in his movements. The Butcher sends his child back to play and directs the workers to continue unloading the truck. He does so sharply and with a hint of exhaustion present in his voice so that it raises and falls away at once. Lastly, he examines the shop as though it were only faintly unfortunate that such an event marred the day. He has the same kind eyes and the gentle demeanor as before. But there is a foggy sadness present that was not there a day ago.
Wordlessly, the box is taken from the shop and dispensed rightfully into the trash. Whatever had been resting inside seemed, somehow unimportant now.
So the father washes his knife.
Meanwhile, The Butcher plays with his toys.
Author Bio
Jagger van Vliet is above all else a Dadaist.
Jagger was born in Maine and currently resides in Boston, Massachusetts. They are pursuing an MA in Writing and Publishing at Emerson College, where they also write novels, short fiction, poetry, and various editorials. Jagger is the author of a published novella, TABU. Additional work can be found in Stork Magazine, Five Cent Sound, and Concrete Literary Magazine, among other publications. Presently, they are the Editorial Director of Index Fashion Magazine.
Jagger’s writing concerns the grotesque, the strange, or the ineluctably necessary (which are all the same thing).
