The Day of the Butcher
By The Lighthouse Keeper
It was September 15th when I decided that one less voice was
all that the world needed. One less voice among the cacophony of chaotic
screaming and the ranting of old men would do the world a favor as opposed to a
meek whisper that no one would hear anyway.
The Day of the Butcher.
It was on that morning that I stared listlessly at the
straight razor that rested on the edge of my sink. For a split second I almost
decided that a vertical gash along the length of my left forearm would suit me
nicely. But reconsidered. I didn't want death. Not at that point. No, I only
It was with the precision of a barber that I sliced my own
tongue from my mouth in a single, labored swath on the morning of September
15th. As I swallowed the warm blood that pulsed from the stump in my mouth, I
No one would ever again be able to blame me for
misinformation. No one would ever again be able to accuse me of being a liar. I
would never again have to profess my undying love and adoration to a potential
bedfellow and there would be no pillow talk afterwards for I had become one of
the silent. I imagined that there were legions of us. Thousands. People just
like me who, rather than endure the judgments of our fellows due to the
utterances which seeped from our mouths like swamp gas, had silenced themselves
forever. In doing so, we had all reclaimed some sort of lost innocence through
We were the Silent Legion.
We were the Butchers.
I opened my eyes which had filled with tears of joy at my
release from my voice and looking out of the small window in the bathroom I saw
a large, black pitbull chasing a small child through a yard. The child screamed
hysterically as the dog snarled and foamed and snapped. The louder the child
screamed, the more agitated the dog became and the more vicious his lunges at
the child. The sheer smell of the child's fear wafted in through my bathroom
window like a hot breeze and sent a shiver through my body. The child sounded
as if it were being devoured alive. As if the dog were rending every tiny
muscle from her tiny little body.
The screaming echoed off the tiles of my shower, which were
still a light shade of pink from the flow of blood which had cascaded across
them only a few minutes before. I regarded the razor which sat on the lid the
toilet shrouded in a thick, residual sheen of my blood like an ex-lover after a
bad break and decided, as I listened to the child outside scream and cry under
the assault of the ravenous dog, that it was not nearly enough to be
I must be deaf as well.
I closed the window of the bathroom, blocking the cries of
the child as I headed to the kitchen in search of an implement appropriate for
a Butcher who was not content to be only mute.
It took me three minutes to decide on a meat
The Lighthouse Keeper