Page 6

My grandfather had me helping in the shop before I was even tall enough to reach the workbench. I’d hand him tools and watch as he worked. The air was always filled with the smell of sawdust and oil. His patience was unending, his hands steady as he shaped wood or fixed a broken tool. I think about those days often. The shop was where I felt safe, where the world seemed smaller and kinder.

But my father hated this shop. Hated everything it stood for.

My father was born late in my grandparents’ lives, a surprise they hadn’t planned for. By then, they didn’t have the energy to dote on him or guide him the way he thought they should have. My grandfather taught him how to work with his hands, how to respect the land, but he didn’t steer him toward the faith. My father never forgave him for that. He saw it as neglect, as a failure.

When my grandfather passed, my father wasted no time erasing his mark on this property. A month after the funeral, he tore the shop apart and rebuilt it, more than doubling its size. “A man of God doesn’t live with minuscule things,” he declared, his voice booming with the same self-righteous certainty he used from the pulpit. “God is grand and so should be those who spread His word.”

That same attitude is why he refused to live in the parsonage behind the church. The house is small, modest, and entirely unremarkable. It was never up to his standards. Instead, he purchased a grander home just one street over, a white-columned monstrosity that screamed opulence.

That was his first theft. The first time, he stole from his congregation, and certainly not the last.

I glance around the shop now, the vast space a testament to his hunger for more. It’s organized in a way that doesn’t suit me, too neat, too pristine. It’s the complete opposite to my shed. Everything in my shed has been used, broken in. The workbench in this shop gleams as if it’s never been used. Rows of tools hang on the wall, each one spotless and perfectly aligned. I wonder if my father ever actually worked here or if the shop was just another stage for his ego, another way to preach without words.

The freezers hum softly in the background, their steady vibration grounding me. What was once his is mine now. If he only knew what I use these freezers for these days. The freezer door resists, the rubber seal clinging stubbornly until I yank it open with a low groan. A rush of cold air spills out, biting at my skin like an accusation. Inside, the pale light gleams off my collection, a morbid arrangement of severed limbs and torsos, frozen stiff and stacked with meticulous care. The chill bites at my face, sharp and relentless, but the smell still seeps through everything. A mix of metal and something faintly sour, a reminder that even ice can’t stop decay. I take a deep breath to try to steel my nerves. This is something I’ve thought long and hard about. I’m too far down the rabbit hole to back out now.

Come on, Lydia.

I reach inside and grab an arm, its fingers curled unnaturally, frozen in mid-clutch. The frost makes the skin translucent, veins just barely visible beneath. I turn it in my hands, examining the jagged edge where the blade slipped. The cut is crude and clumsy.

“Sloppy,” I mutter, tossing the arm back onto the pile. It lands with a hollow thud. I can hear my father’s voice whisper his words of disappointment and belittlement. I close my eyes. I will never have to hear his voice again. I’ve survived him. Just as I’ve survived everyone else.

Further down, I spot a face, its lips pulled back in a grin that’s almost mocking. Crystals cling to the features, softening the horror into something surreal. I stare at it for a long moment, my breath clouding in the cold air. Not the one I’m looking for. I dig deeper, shoving aside limbs and bags until my fingers brush against something familiar, a sealed bag stiff with frost. I pull it free and peer at the contents, my breath catching.

Even through the condensation, I recognize it: the slender arm, the small hand curled into a lifeless fist. My first…

The air is thick tonight, heavy with humidity that clings to my skin like a second layer. The knife in my pocket feels impossibly heavy. It’s one of my grandfather’s boning knives he would use after he strung up the deer during hunting season. I watched the flick of his wrist year after year as he would slice the animal from throat to groin, letting the innards fall to the shed’s wooden floors.

Across the alley, I spot the man I’ve been following for the past several hours. He’s a wanderer with no place to call home. The dirt on his face and the threadbare clothes on his back tells me he’s been wandering for a while. Chances are he has no one to miss him. He leans against a brick wall, the glow of half a cigarette that he picked up from the gutter breaking the darkness. The ember flares, lighting up his hollow cheeks and narrowed eyes. He’s mumbling to himself. Twitching his shoulders and shaking his head like he’s having a full-on argument with someone else. But he’s alone. Maybe his ghosts haunt him just as much as mine haunt me.

I’ve rehearsed the steps in my mind for as long as I can remember, walk up, distract him, strike. It’s simple. I’ve planned every move, every word. But as I take a step forward, my chest tightens, and my throat dries. I step off the curb and head straight to him. When he looks up, my steps falter. I look down the street both ways, making sure no one’s there.

“You lost or something?” His voice cuts through the silence, sharp and irritated.

“I... uh...” The words dissolve in my throat. Directions? The time? I can’t remember what I’d planned to say.

He frowns, straightening. “Look, lady, spit it out or move along. You’re in my space, and I don’t like no one in my space.” Spit flies from his mouth.

My fingers tighten around the knife in my pocket. It feels foreign now, the grip slick with sweat. I lunge, aiming for his side, but the blade skids off his ribs with a sickening scrape. He cries out, louder than I expected.

He stumbles back. “Goddamn it…” he shouts, grabbing at my wrist. His breath is rancid as it hits my nose, and I’m thrown back to the past, to a time when I couldn’t do anything but breathe in that smell as he took from me time and time again.

I panic, shoving the knife again. This time, it sinks into something soft, and heat rushes against my palm. Blood. His body jerks, crashing into mine before collapsing to the ground. He doesn’t die quietly. He gasps, clawing at the ground, a wet gurgle rattling in his throat. My hands shake as I crouch over him, pressing the blade against his neck. His eyes widen as blood spurts from his mouth.

“Shut your mouth,” I hiss.

I push harder, the knife slipping before finally sinking in. His body spasms once, then goes still.

Silence swallows me. I stay there, kneeling over him, staring at the blood pooling around my knees. My chest heaves, my breath ragged and shallow. I drop the knife, the clang against the pavement ringing in my ears as I stumble back...

The memory grips me, raw and unrelenting. The adrenaline that was coursing through my body that night gave me just enough strength to haul him into the back of my old pick-up truck and bring him home. I didn’t care about the pile of blood that I left on the street. My body was running on something older than reason and fear. Something that had waited years for that exact moment. Besides, I’m sure it wasn’t the first time blood had spilled on the ground, and it won’t be the last. Not in that part of Huntington anyway. Not when the homelessness was so out of control. Like I said, I had done my research.

The freezer transports me back to that night. The humidity, the pavement, the way his body felt heavier than anything I’d ever carried. I reach in and grab a leg this time, the muscle heavier than I remember, biting cold into my palm. My breath hitches as the icy surface burns against my fingers, the frost clinging to my skin, numbing and stinging all at once. I pull back sharply, cradling my hand as pain lingers in the tips of my fingers. “Come on, Lydia, think.” With a shaky exhale, I grab a pair of gloves from the workbench and slide them on, the leather’s stiff but warm enough to shield me. I touch the arm again, the rigid texture less abrasive now as I trace the jagged edge of the severed limb. It taunts me. Everything was rushed that night, from my approach to the horrid job I did breaking down his body. I’m better now.

That night taught me something no book ever could. It doesn’t matter how many videos you’ve watched, how much you’ve read, or how many years you’ve spent in school. Without the actual experience you’re nothing but a hack. My first time proved that. Messy. Loud. Nearly catastrophic. But I learned more in that alley than I ever did in a classroom.

I smile faintly, not with joy but with acknowledgment. I’ve come far since that night. I’ve refined my craft. I’ve gained the experience. The freezer full of my trophies proves it.

I grab the wheelbarrow parked against the wall and roll it to the freezer. I start loading the wheelbarrow. An arm. Another. A leg. No lingering this time, not noticing. Just the weight and the motion, piece after piece.