The Hooks Push Through Her Hands As She Hangs There, Motionless, Swinging Limply From The Chains That

The hooks push through her hands as she hangs there, motionless, swinging limply from the chains that connect her body to the ceiling.

It’s cold.

It’s dark.

It’s lonely.

Two sharp thumps can be heard as the door in front of her is unlocked. A harsh scraping noise emanates as it is pulled aside, struggling against the ice that conspires to hold it shut.

Her butcher stands, framed by the light from the doorway. As she waits there, taking in the sight before her, glimmering crystals of frost formed from her breath appear, then fall, then vanish.

Her butcher cuts her down, leaving behind a few vestigial bits of flesh. The ones with five fingers and palms and all those useless scraps.

Her legs fail to support her, buckling as she collapses towards the ground.

Her butcher catches her.

Holds her.

Changes her grip.

Carries her out of the room.

And then she is carved apart.

She is asphyxiated by smoke. She is dehydrated and left to dry on racks. She is minced and placed in neat little shells. She is burnt. She is chilled. She is preserved.

Under the watchful eyes of her lovely butcher, she is irrevocably divided and forever changed. Under her care she is given purpose and made to look perfect.

In the end, when all is said and done, it is the caring teeth of her butcher that sink into her. It is her tongue that tastes her. It is down her gullet that she is swallowed.

Her butcher appreciates her, savours her, values her.

Her butcher consumes her.