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Knives and Bones


He put the cleaver down, having no more use for it. The body parts were separated now, spread out and ready to further dismantle. He had just an hour – maybe less -- to finish before the family returned.

 

Selecting a boning knife from his cache of tools, he skillfully whet the straight blade in rhythmic strokes, relishing the sound of steel against stone, then raised the knife slowly, worshipfully, until the edge caught a glint from the light overhead. He ran his finger over the edge to test it– being cautious not to slice his latex glove. 

 

He hoisted the whole, bloodless leg to the table top, which he’d taken pains to meticulously cover with plastic. Though the limb had bled out, a transparent string of goo caught hold of his apron, stretching out like a thread of spiders’ silk, which snapped once the leg landed. 

 

He worked quickly now, blade flashing, deftly separating skin from fascia, pushing remnants of fat aside to afford him a solid grip on the muscles, now fully exposed. Methodically replacing the knife to its specified sheath, so nothing would be missed once he cleaned up, he returned to the leg, grasping the thigh with one hand and the calf with the other. He bent the two at the joint which neatly dislocated with a staccato pop. 

 

The tibia swung freely.

 

Next, he ran an incision around the ankles with surgical precision, then teased the ligament threads up, one by one, snipping them with kitchen scissors, in order to cleanly cleave each foot at the ankles with one stark whack.

 

This would make the next step easier. Straightening the leg again on the work surface, he located just the right spot upon which to balance the tip of the blade. Gathering the necessary heft, he thrust on the handle till he heard that satisfying snap. No matter how many times he did this, it always shot a finger of adrenaline through his core. 

 

Rapidly now, he carved the flesh away from the bones, with smooth, sure slices. All tissue went into a heavy-duty plastic bag, the joints into a boiling vat. 

 

And then: a return to the feet.

 

Here he felt a little light headed. Though he didn’t really have time to pause, he momentarily shut his eyes and inhaled deeply.  All the other work he took in stride… enjoyed it even, if pressed to admit it. But the one thing that creeped him out were the feet - pasty and wrinkly, as if embalmed. Most gruesome to him were the toenails, each different, some pointy, some square, and on occasion, one missing. He caught himself squinting but of course he had to see them to complete the task. They were one of the more important parts. 

 

Tonight, one foot had a hideous black and blue mark, evidence of a nasty scuffle.

 

One of these days, he said under his breath, one of these days… I’ll cave and just buy chicken bone broth.

 Written by Rochelle Joseph

 

 

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