Short Story Saturday: Cleaner

CLEANER

The moonlight shines brightly off the blade of my knife. It's quiet out, aside from my knife sliding across the whetstone in my hands and the sound of steady, rhythmic breathing. I'm standing just outside the darker shadows of the tree near me.

I set the whetstone on the tailgate of my truck. Then I run my left thumb over the blade. I can't tell right away, as there is no pain or blood, but I know that the skin had been sliced. I place the knife in its sheath then turn my attention to my thumb. Still no blood. I take my right hand and squeeze the thumb between my other one and the pointer finger of my left hand. There it is, the dark red fluid leaks from the self-inflicted wound. I stare at it for a minute. My pulse quickening. Finally, I stick the digit in my mouth and suck. I love the coppery taste and the thickness of the blood on my tongue.

A moan from behind distracts my pleasure. “What the fuck?”

Ah, she's awake. It's about time, I think. Though, she doesn't need to be awake for me to do what I'm getting paid for. Not to mention the bonus steaks I get if the client's happy.

I hear chains, not so much clinking but adjusting as the woman hanging upside-down behind me struggles. I turn to face her. There's a stream of moonlight that shines through the tree branches at exactly the right angle to bathe her in it. Her hands hang below her head; they're four, maybe five, inches from the ground. I stare at them longingly for several minutes. I think how I'll keep them for myself. They're handcuffed together, giving her less of a range of motion. My eyes drift up past her face, which is twisted in a mix of discomfort and rage, to her breast. They sit higher on her chest than they should from the pull of gravity. My eyes travel further, skimming over her navel that had a piercing, but I took it out when I removed her clothes. I pass over her slit, it's shaved completely, except for a thin strip of trimmed hair. I stop where the chains wrap around her ankles. Her legs are spread.

I always wish I could use hooks, but I've tried it before. The weight of the person tears the tendons, and my prey ends up with a broken neck. What fun is that? If they don't die, they can't struggle. That brings me no excitement.

“Joke's over, you sick fuck! Let me down,” she screams and struggles again against her bindings. Her hair sweeping across the ground.

I laugh. “That's not going to happen, sweetheart. I've got an order to fill.”

I turn back around and head toward my truck. I grab the whetstone and put it in the glove box, and I return to the bed, pulling the large cooler, heavy with ice, to the tailgate. I retrieve a bucket from the bed and return to the woman, setting it in front of her.

“What are you doing?” she asks and swings around a bit, still trying to break free.

I say nothing as I walk behind her. I wrap her hair in my left hand and pull it as tight as possible, and then I use my knife to cut her hair as close to the scalp as I can without cutting it. She screams. I toss the hair to the ground as I make my way back to the bucket. I slide it under her head. Her shoulders are nearly touching the rim of the bucket. I'd almost hung her too low.

Her screams and cries are now echoed. “You can't do this. Do you know who I am? Just stop, I can give you money. I won't even tell anyone.”

“Don't you know how to shut up?” I say and grasp her chin, pushing it down.

I bring my knife from directly underneath one earlobe, around her throat, and to the same location under the other ear. I can hear the blood spray the wall of the bucket. She gurgles for a minute. Soon there's just the sound of dripping—more blood joining the blood that's already filled the bucket at least a quarter of the way.

I wait for the dripping to stop being so frequent, and I remove the bucket, taking it to the truck and place the lid on it. I put this bucket in a large trough that has ice in it, some of which has already melted and the bucket slides past the ice easily. I take a second bucket and place it in front of the woman. I get to work. First, I remove her hands and place them in a gallon sized baggy, tossing it to the ground, and then I skin her. Some clients prefer to have the skin intact but not this one; they also want the meat boneless. I run my knife down her middle, starting at her pelvis and working my way to her collarbone. Her guts spill forward and down. I remove them carefully from the cavity from which they came, trying my hardest not to damage any of the organs as I placed them in the bucket.

After closing the second bucket and placing it in the trough next to the other, I go back to the woman. Well, what's left of her. I begin removing the meat from her bones, putting each piece in the cooler as I remove it. I start with her calves, using a step ladder to reach the highest areas, and I end by removing her tongue and eyes. I've also removed her ribs intact.

Once there's nearly only a skeleton remaining, I close the lid to the cooler. I climb in the bed of the truck and pull the cooler off the tailgate and further into the bed. I close the lid upon returning my feet to the ground.

I take the bones down from the tree, along with the chains and other hardware. The bones I place in a garbage bag to take home to our dogs. Our dogs love it when I bring them special treats. The chains, hardware, and the gallon bag that contain her hands I put in the toolbox in the bed of my truck. I tuck the garbage bag in a compartment under the back seat before getting in and driving to the butcher. I'm only the hunter and cleaner. Josh, he's the one that fills the order. You know: steaks, sausage, roast. All that good stuff.




*This story can be found in my short story collection, Images from a Wandering Mind: a Sick and Disturbing Collection.