The headaches are getting worse. Jack looks down at his plastic-gloved hands, one grasping a meat cleaver while the other braces a pork chop. He can literally hear the blood pumping under his scalp, and he yearns to take the meat cleaver to his skull-- just to relieve a little pressure. He laughs; it’s been a long day, and there are only a few customers left. As he packages the fresh chop for an old woman standing behind the counter, Jack lingers on the absurdity of the thought: the bloodied instrument sticking out of his head as he stands there smiling in front of his patrons. The look of shock he imagines on their faces is enough to make him chuckle with alacrity once again.
The old woman returns a smile in good humor as she accepts her package, unaware of the morbidity that echoed within the deli man’s cackle. Jack’s vision suddenly wanes as he watches her walk out, his peripherals blurring and his focus turning white. These damn headaches. There is only one way to squelch his screaming cranium, but Jack knows it isn’t time for that just yet; he succumbs to that dirty pleasure only once every couple of years.
Before tending to his last two customers, Jack excuses himself for a moment and removes his gloves. He stoops down, opens a large drawer beneath the counter, and considers the array of plastic bottles and multicolor caps spanning in front of him. It’s like the parking lot at an airport-- no, like a giant auto salvage yard-- hundreds of different color caps and bottles resting in their graveyard. Jack had long since given up optimism for relief from any of these pills, but today just like any other, he opts to take several anyway.
He opens several bottles, grabs a couple prescription strength Tylenol, Advil, Ibuprofen, Vivarin, Naproxen, Almotriptan, Eletriptan, and Frovatriptan, and dry-swallows the entire handful. Even if the medication doesn’t relieve his headaches, it does fuck him up a little bit and Jack likes the sedation; it distracts him from the painful lust of relief. He closes the opened bottles, slides the drawer shut, and wobbles as he stands himself up. The last two customers leave with smiles, Jack barely able to remember what he has just handed them. These pills may not help the headaches, but they sure do kick in quickly.
Once again Jack thinks about putting the headaches to rest, but this time with much less aggression. He only gives in a couple of times per year, and for now he’d have to wait. Jack sanguinely enjoys this part of his evenings anyway, floating on clouds as he begins to wipe down the countertops, lucidly attempting to ignore the pounding between his temples. This is Jack’s alone time. This is Jack’s time to think. This is Jack’s only outlet to retain his ever-slipping sanity, the hours between closing up shop at his and driving home to a family he detests. How exhilarating it would be to take the aforementioned meat cleaver to his each of his family’s heads, he thinks, smiling to himself once more. He would start with the children, forcing his wife to watch as he dismembered and disemboweled them with the precision and efficiency of a seasoned butcher.
His head pounds again. He looks longingly towards the back room, where he keeps his anti-migraine tools in a trunk hidden beneath the floorboards. No, not yet. That was only once every couple months, as such an insatiably destructive habit requires discipline and abstinate regulation.
Caught in his violent daydreams, Jack is suddenly rushed back into the moment as he feels a sharp stinging sensation sweep along the palm of his hand. In his stupor, he seems to have grazed against the blade of a knife he neglected to put away. God dammit, not again. He runs the faucet next to him and slides his leaking, calloused mitt under the water. As the wound clears, Jack is suddenly captivated by the crimson droplets. The world stands still, and blood is the only thing in Jack’s focus. His mind drifts again, this time taking his fantasies a step further.
Stupid fucking family. His jaw protests as he grits his teeth together, a crazed grin narrowly escaping even narrower lips. He could easily chop them to bits and serve them to his customers; they would be none the wiser. They would come back the next day, smiling and loudly exclaiming how fresh and tasty last night’s roast was, and if they could please get another cut. Perhaps even a whole limb? He would smile broadly and say unfortunately that was a special cut that he won’t be able to get again. Or could he? Maniacal laughter ensues.
Jack’s head pounds, an ironic penance for thinking such vile thoughts. Fuck this. Perhaps it really is time to give in once again. After all, it’s only a couple of times a month, and he feels as though he’s overdue for another indulgence. He composes himself and moves towards the back, beelining for the trunk that holds his tools. He’s doing it again tonight, and now he’s salivating.
Jack was focusing adamantly on his migraines and the self-destructive drinking habit that makes them go away, so much so that he didn’t even hear the front door squeak as a large shadow slipped through several minutes ago. Jack was focusing so intensely on the slaughter of his loving wife and children that he didn’t even see the behemoth of a man lurking in the corner. But Jack sure sees him now, and the doped-up deli man has never felt more sober than ever.
The dark hulking figure rises in front of Jack, blocking him from the stash of whiskey. The man stands at least seven feet tall, and as wide as a refrigerator. He is wearing a jaunty, tattered outfit of black cloth and a bloodstained once-white apron loosely around his waist. Over his head is the head of a pig with its eyes and mouth sewn shut, and in his hand he holds the biggest meat cleaver Jack has ever seen. Jack’s last thoughts are not of his family; he does not see his life flash before his eyes. All he can think about is his pounding headache, and all he sees is a flash of light reflected in the oncoming cleaver. A split-second later and it’s nothing but cold, dark, emptiness.
They call this man-- this monster-- “The Butcher,” and not because he works in a deli.
Submitted March 18, 2016 at 12:33AM by sumostar http://ift.tt/1pOyu9P nosleep
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