⚠️ CW - violence, potentially disturbing content

I wondered if the horses could sense my fear.

Of course, I knew little about horses, so perhaps that was impossible. They didn't seem to react when I trudged into the stable after the page, or when I placed one sweaty palm to the first stallion on the right's muzzle and pet it gently in greeting.

He was small, compared to the others. It reminded me of how I might look standing next to all my brothers.

Horses, I told myself, weren't much different from cows. I'd grown up around cows, and they had always liked me well enough.

"Beautiful creatures, aren't they?" a deep voice murmured as the horse snorted against my fingers.

I turned. Before me stood a man, tall, his skin dark and his hair cut close to his scalp, dressed in a wrinkled shirt and faded tan vest. He was older than me, but still young. Handsome in a casual way.

"They are," I said. In the stalls closest to the stable doors, the horses were a variety of colors - mostly brown, some with white patches, a few gray. The horses farthest down were all white, in neighboring stalls as if part of a set, tall and proud and shiner than any other.

Royal horses.

"You've been sent by His Majesty." His eyes watched me cooly. "That's quite the impressive recommendation."

I looked around for the page. He'd disappeared. "Uh," I muttered, swirling my toe on the dusty ground. "About that. I-"

"I assume you've worked in large stables in the past," the man - he must've been the stable master - continued. "Perhaps a manor house? An estate?"

I let out a quick breath. "Oh, yes, of course. I worked for a... a Lord."

"Then you'll be familiar with how vigorous the work is. There's often not a moment's rest."

I swallowed. "Obviously."

"And your name?"

"Auden," I told him. So far, only one person called me Mr Murray, and I wasn't opposed to keeping it that way.

He didn't speak for a moment. There was something in his eyes, something about the way he studied me, that made it clear he didn't trust me. I didn't blame him. "Amadi," he returned, and held out his right hand.

His grip was firm, but quick. He pulled away within a second.

"I have work to do," he said. "Clean the stalls and fill the water troughs. You'll take the King's horses out back later and wash them."

"Wash?" I repeated, content to stay with the friendly brown horse that kept sniffing my hand.

He paused, his eyes narrowing. "Yes. With a bucket and rag. They must be kept clean at all times."

I gave the brown horse's neck a scratch as he walked away. It prodded its nose to my shoulder. "I bet you don't get a bath every day, do you?" I murmured. "You're just plain and dull. And small."

The horse nudged me again and nickered softly.

"You probably have a name," I said. "But I'll have to call you something else." I scanned the animal's flank for any distinctive markings. "I'll call you Brownie," I decided finally. It wasn't the most creative, but Brownie didn't seem to mind.

He appeared to watch me as I went through each stall to rake out the old hay, but perhaps that was all in my head. I imagined the horse's dark eyes following me, waiting to see my next move.

I couldn't help but think he would soon be disappointed in me.

🦢•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧.˚ *•̩̩͙ 🦢. •̩̩͙*˚⁺‧.˚ *•̩̩͙ 🦢

The slaughterhouse was more intimidating at night.

Most of the stable grooms slept right there in the stable, so now I knew why I'd never seen them in the servants' quarters. I couldn't decide which was worse: sleeping next to a bunch of filthy, smelly animals or a bunch of filthy, smelly men that acted like animals.

I crept out once they were snoring and followed the path back to the garden, then from there up the muddy hill to the slaughterhouse.

My heart was pounding the entire walk, which was silly.

I wasn't the one about to die.

The wooden doors let out a long creak as I pushed them open.

Stupid Geoff, I thought. You don't lock up at night? What if some starving beggar comes along and steals all your meat?

I wondered what Geoff was doing tonight. Playing cards, perhaps. Or reading his newspapers and scribbling in the margins. Perhaps he was out looking for someone to kill.

Was it Geoff, then, that gave me this thirst? This awful, unquenchable yearning that tugged inside me day by day? Or had I always been this way and never known?

The pig's head sat watching me as I crouched down behind the counter.

The cleaver would be too large, I decided. Too hard to conceal in my vest. I settled on a thinner knife, used for cutting strips of meat close to the bone. The blade was sharp.

Hello, piggy. I pressed the knife to its snout. Specks of green and black had grown like vines along the decaying flesh. Dark stains of red ran from the corner of the animal's mouth and eyes. Did you die screaming? Just wait. You'll be avenged soon.

The butcher would be a good kill. Alone and unexpecting. No one would miss him, I was sure of it. I could practice on him and when I was done, I would feel better.

You and me, pig, we're the same. Bottom of the pile.

It stared back at me, forlorn on its wretched throne.

Why so sad? I thought. Here. I'll make you happy.

Grinning to myself, I cut a long slit on either side of the pig's mouth until it resembled a smile. A very wicked smile.

I hoped whoever came in first tomorrow morning would notice. It would be Geoff, most likely. Will you notice piggy's smile, Geoff?

The smell of the slaughterhouse was too much to stomach any longer. I tucked the knife into the inside pocket of my vest and slunk out into the icy night.

It was dark outside, the moon my only guide. I followed the outer wall of the building, the knife thudding against my chest.

Out back, a dark form stood waiting, huddled up against the wall with his arms tight around his body.

I smiled.

"Late," he muttered. Despite the crisp night air, he was sweating. I could smell his rank body odor and took a shallow breath.

"I couldn't get away any faster." I kept my voice warm, soothing. I wanted him to look at me. I wanted to see his eyes. "But I'm here now."

My words broke the dam. He lurched forward, his hand springing to my collarbone, fingers spreading over my throat. If I kissed him now I knew what I would taste. Filth. Rot.

He touched me eagerly, his breath coming hard and fast and spilling over my cheek. I closed my eyes and thought about how good I would feel in just a few moments. To have his hot blood sticking between my fingers instead of a fat, greasy cock. How delicious it would be.

The butcher's thick fingers squeezed my throat and I gasped for breath. "Pretty," he admired, giving me a wide smile. Brown teeth. Meaty lips. I wanted to tear away from him, run as far as I could.

Just a little longer.

As if in a trance, I smiled back and brought my face to his.

"You're so sweet." My lips drifted like a feather across his cheekbone. "I wish you were my first." He grinned without a word, one hand on my neck and the other sliding into his trousers. "Do you want to hear about it?" I murmured. "The first time?"

"Oh, yes." His breath poured out. "Yes."

"He was a guard..." I tilted my head, allowing him more access to my throat. "I was meant to be working but he caught me outside. He would have dragged me to the steward. I would've been punished so badly."

The butcher's eyes closed, his tongue swiveling over his lips as he imagined the scene.

"It was such a dirty thing I did." I took a breath, made my eyes wider. "But I had to," I said, like I was pleading for him to understand. "I had to do it."

He grunted hungrily. "Tell me more. More."

"I was frightened at first," I whispered. My fingers roamed over the broad expanse of his shoulders. Men always liked that. Fear. His fist thrust up and down inside his trousers. "He held me down- I couldn't get away. And then it was over and I could feel him lying on top of me." I leaned closer, breathing him in. "So peaceful. So still."

The butcher moaned, his features straining, and twisted me around with his free hand. His hard chest hit my back, pressing me to the wall. The brick scraped my cheek and stung.

I needed to act now, before I lost my chance.

He fumbled to get his trousers down while I reached inside my coat, fingertips grazing the knife's handle.

I had to see it through. There was no way he would let me go. That's what I'd told myself with the guard. It was my only option.

The truth was, I was smiling as I drew out the knife. Biting my lips, barely able to contain my excitement. I twisted back, meeting his eyes one final time. His rotten breath fanned my cheek and I plunged the knife deep into the unprotected flesh of his side.

He let out a loud cry and the weight at my back crumbled away.

The sound gave me a surge of power like nothing I had ever known. I sucked in a breath, feeling my head spin with ungodly ecstasy.

He was slumped on the ground when I turned, palms covering the wound in his side. The glint of the blade shone between his fingers and I cursed myself. I hadn't stabbed hard enough.

"What are you-" he croaked.

"Relax." I dropped to my knees and crawled over him, fingers stretching for the knife embedded in his flesh. "This is all part of the fun, my sweet."

He chuckled nervously, half pain and half fear. I could see it in his eyes. He was afraid of me. I grasped the knife and pulled, watching with a gasp of delight as a dark stain spread outward across his shirt.

The butcher gave a low groan, the sound smothered in his throat as he gasped for air. I traced the blade's bloodstained tip down his jaw, watching how his bleary eyes widened and his free hand came up to press against my chest.

"A nice, sweet man," I whispered. "You wouldn't hurt anyone, would you?"

His eyes darkened, boiling with hatred. He was strong. A hundred times stronger than me. He could push me off in a heartbeat, take my knife and stab me over and over.

Something was stopping him.

I wondered if, beneath his rage and his fear and the blood seeping from the gash in his side, he still wanted me.

I brought the blade to his panting mouth. "See? See how sweet you taste?" I asked feverishly.

Flesh broke so easily. Just a bit more pressure and his lower lip would open like the petals of a flower. There was a part of me that wanted it, the reckless part, the part that wanted it over fast. I was terrified that he would overpower me.

It would be easy.

All he had to do was grab my wrist, wrench the knife away.

Why didn't he?

My fingers slid backward, down his heaving stomach to the hard bulge in his trousers. For a moment I was in awe, but then, the depravity of men was of little surprise to me.

"Tell me what you would have done to me tonight," I breathed as his thick hands slid over my hips. My legs were splayed on either side of his, knees pressing to the damp earth.

His deep voice was hitched with pain. "Mm- 'm gonna fuck you," he grunted.

"Are you?" A thin line of blood glistened on his lip. "I don't think so, pig."

His temple shone with sweat. He struggled to breathe.

"Yes, that's right," I murmured. "You kill pigs, butcher. But you're the pig now." I leaned down, close to his lips. "Will you squeal for me?"

His head lurched up, knocking hard into mine. I gasped as pain racked my skull and then, before I could get my bearings, his mouth was on mine, hot and bloody. I gagged, fingers digging into his throat to push him back.

More blood leaked from the wound in his side as he sat up and pulled me to his chest. He bit me, my tongue, my lips, anything he could sink his teeth into, until I reached up with the knife and jabbed the small of his back.

He screamed. The sound was so loud, so sharp, a cutting pain sliced behind my eyes. I ripped out the knife and jabbed again.

The butcher slumped against me, limp, terrible cries of agony escaping him.

My pig was squealing.

I pushed away from him and stood, ignoring the wave of nausea that rolled through me. Almost over, I thought. It's almost over.

The butcher turned onto his front and began dragging himself in the dirt, inch by inch, away from me.

I tasted blood in my mouth. My own blood, from where his rotten teeth had severed my lip like the meat he sliced up every day. I followed him, my steps keeping pace with his futile attempt to escape.

"It's a little late to run, pig."

Bloody saliva bubbled on his lips. "Damn you."

I pressed down on his spine with my boot, just above the darkening wound. He groaned and sank to the ground. I lowered myself over him, my chest to his shoulders and my hand creeping up the back of his head.

"Let me help you," I whispered, fingers tight in his oily hair. I tugged his head back and slashed the blade across his open throat.

He didn't last long.

Blood poured out in almost every direction, spraying the grass. I dropped his head with a thud, a dark pool sprawling out beneath his sunken cheek. The knife slipped from my fingers. I would have to leave it here, with the body. I couldn't run the risk of someone finding me with it.

My right sleeve was soaked in blood, but other than that my clothes were alright. It wasn't uncommon for workers to have bloodstained clothes. Either from animals or injuries at work. Not that I expected to be questioned.

I crawled away from the butcher, gasping as the air was suddenly sucked from my lungs. Nausea swirled in my stomach and up my throat. I closed my eyes for a long time, laying in the grass, as motionless as the dead man beside me.

Thick blood dripped from my fingertips.

I stared at it, eye level with the grass, then raised my hand to my face.

A bead of blood dripped onto my cheek.

I licked my lips, hands shaking now, willing myself to resist.

I couldn't.

The metallic tang bloomed on my tongue as I sucked my fingers clean, pressing them deeper, deeper into my mouth. Soon the blood was smeared across my lips, my cheek, hot and sticky and fresh.

The bile in my throat overflowed and I retched into the grass.

I was filthy, kneeling in the dirt over my kill like an animal.

You would have eaten me, I thought at him. But you were wrong. I eat you, pig. I eat you.

I rocked back on my heels and sat with my back to the brick wall, my eyes scanning the depths the black sky. That burning flame in my chest was dim now. I wondered how long it would stay that way.

I hated so much of the world. I hated rich men and their mansions and their coins and their power. I hated poor men and their stench and their disease and their filth. I hated the whole of mankind.

But there I sat, bloodied fingers pressed to my lips, nothing but a man.