Excerpt from "How Houses Hide Their Dead"

Excerpt from "How Houses Hide Their Dead"

By Anonymous

Arias stumbled into the kitchen, grabbing a half eaten piece of toast from the counter while rubbing his eye with his other hand. Good fucking morning, he thought, blinking blearily and taking a bite. His eyes widened and he gagged. How old is this toast? He spit into the sink a few times to clear the stale taste from his mouth and used his finger to fish for a seed stuck between his molars. He glanced at his arms and saw the grooves and patterns the twisted up sheets had left on his skin. Sleep marks. He must have slept hard last night, a deep sleep fueled by drunkenness and pain. 

Checking the clock, he winced, realization dawning that he was an hour late for his job at the butcher’s shop. Shit. I’m gonna pay for that. He sighed and headed down the short hallway to his disaster of a bedroom, grabbing a black shirt and trousers from the floor. Holding them to his nose for a whiff, he wrinkled his nose but ultimately decided to put them on, knowing the stench of alcohol on his breath was a dead giveaway as it is. Besides, he’d run out of toothpaste several weeks ago and couldn’t afford more.

He blinked as he stepped outside of the apartment building, cursing the sun for being so bright on a day when he’s in such poor shape. Squinting, he missed a step on the stairs and stumbled. “Fuck,” he grunted, causing one of his neighbors, outside with her dog, to sniff disapprovingly. He rolled his eyes, which inevitably made his head hurt, and kept walking toward the shop.

“Boy, you get your ass inside here,” the butcher said, eyes narrowed and beady. “Why the hell are you late? Been out drinkin’ and snortin’ shit again?” 

“None of your business,” Arias mumbled. “I’m here now.” 

“Not for long.” The burly man grabbed his bicep and dragged him toward the back room of the shop. He was about 6 and a half feet tall and practically as wide. “Don’t you dare walk back in here hungover, beggin’ for your job back when you’re barely alive.” The butcher slammed the swinging door open, and Arias’ groggy brain realized what was about to happen. 

“Stop,” he pleaded, uselessly hitting the arm that had a vise-like grip around his own.

“Too bad.” The butcher snagged the back of Arias’ head, his sausage fingers yanking the fine hairs at the nape of Arias’ neck. Arias managed to take a deep breath before his entire head was plunged into a tool-cleaning bucket filled with nasty water. He was under long enough for the air in his lungs to go stale and his heartbeat to thrum loudly against his skull before he was pulled back out, gasping. A piece of fat from some unknown cut of meat slid down his cheek and he gagged slightly. 

“I’m sorry,” Arias breathed. “Please just let me go.”

“I never wanna see you in here again,” the fat man said with a growl. “You’re fired. You’re dead to me.” Arias nodded, squirming to get out of the butcher’s grasp. He shoved toward the door, hair dripping, and when he regained his footing, he began to run. Another dead-end job down the drain. He ran until he reached the bar, which didn’t open for another hour and a half, and sat on the curb.