The Sweet Smell of Decay

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As I gazed upon her face a small black beetle emerged from the ruins of her right eye. It stood uncertainly upon the crest of her cheekbone as if suddenly reluctant to step out further. Though I looked upon the beetle as if it was something unutterably revolting, still I felt like we two had something in common. The butcher reached over, picked it up gently between his thumb and stubby forefinger then crushed it. I could hardly protest. He wiped its remains upon his shirt.

He smiled at me like we were two brothers engaged in holy conspiracy then poured fluid into the two ravaged sockets out of a small wooden cup before setting to clean out the holes with a piece of soiled linen, humming quietly as he worked. The smell was sweet and rich, like an ancient suet pudding. Great lumps of congealed sticky flesh he extracted with the cloth, which he wiped upon his trouser leg. Swallowing gently, I stood back, giddy for a moment, and breathed in some of the icy, wet air that hung about us like a damp mist. All I could think of was that when we were done here we would not be leaving all of the body behind. Some of it would be walking out with us, stuck upon the butcher’s arse. The cold in the room was a mercy. Walking about the table I positioned myself beside the butcher’s left shoulder so that I could see all, yet not too close.

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