Page 50 of Web of Lies
Meat is meat.
That’s how I see it. Humans aren’t above the food chain; we're no different from anything else that bleeds. We're just another part of it and have to accept that it's eat or be eaten.
I work, lost in my thoughts, my body moving on autopilot. One by one, the heavy cuts fall from my hands into the coolers with a wet thud.
As the last piece of meat drops into the cooler, I take a step back and exhale at the sight of the empty table in front of me. Its surface reflects the dim light in the dark pool of blood dripping down its edges. The metallic scent fills the air, seeping into my nose and throat before spreading across my tongue.
My attention shifts to the coolers lining the wall. Each one is well-organized. There is one for each restaurant, a smaller one for personal use, and an extra one reserved for disposal. Everything is neat and in its place. Just the way I like it.
"Mom, I'm home," I call out as I walk through the front door of my parents' house. The familiar scents of vanilla air freshener and something sweet baking in the kitchen greet me. Soft sunlight spills through the front door, stretching across the warm wooden floor. The house is cozy and calm. Framed photos line the hallway walls. Most of them show happy moments: birthdays, vacations, and a few school pictures that I wish we didn't keep. Near the stairs stands a tall scratching post, worn from years of use, with a couple of toy mice dangling from strings.
"Baby Bear?" Mom's voice calls from the kitchen, and a moment later, she steps into the hallway. Her face lights up at the sight of me, and her lips curve into a warm smile. If I didn't know she was fifty-six, I'd guess she was in her late thirties. She has hardly any wrinkles, and her black hair is freshly dyed and shiny. She's wearing a flowy, pleated skirt and a soft, buttoned blouse with a cat-themed apron over it to protect her clothes.
I walk toward her, and the second I'm within reach, she pulls me into one of her tight hugs. Then, as always, she pulls back, cups my face in her hands, and tilts my head left and right, searching for cuts, bruises, or new tattoos.
"Why didn't you call?" she finally asks, releasing my face.
"I wanted to surprise you." I motion toward the cooler by the door.
Her eyes widen at the sight. "Is that—"
"Yeah, it was freshly butchered this morning."
"Oh, Baby, you're the best." She rises on her toes and presses a kiss against my cheek. At her words, the corners of my mouth twitch upward. "Will you bring it into the kitchen for me?"
"Of course," I say, turning back to grab the cooler. I follow her down the hallway and into the kitchen, where I set it on the counter. Without wasting a second, she flips its lid open and starts unloading the meat as if it's the most normal thing in the world. Meanwhile, I walk over to the fridge, grab a cold bottle of water, twist off the cap, and lean against the counter behind her to watch her work in silence.
The soft creak of footsteps pulls my attention toward the doorway between the kitchen and living room. My attention follows the sound until I spot Dad walking in. He pauses on the other side of the counter, first looking at Mom and the meat she's organizing, then at me.
"Hey," he says, his voice calm but rough.
"Hey, Dad," I say, giving him a nod.
"Did you bring that?" he asks.
"Yes, who else would?" I say as I reach into the back pocket of my jeans, pull out a rolled-up piece of paper, and hand it to him. "Here are his full medical records. He was healthy overall. No issues. He just messed with the wrong people."
"Thanks," Dad says as he takes the paper and studies it.
Mom glances up from the counter, where she's sealing the meat in vacuum bags. "Honey, Kyle would never bring me bad meat," she says with a coy smile.
"I know," he says, still focused on the papers. "With everything that's been going on lately, I'm just being overly cautious."
"Don't worry, Dad. You taught me well," I say with a smirk and a roll of my eyes. In fact, I understand why he is concerned. He prefers to be in control at all times. Giving up his position as the Butcher was already quite the struggle, and the latest shutdownof the shop in the Bay Area has only made things worse. Since the news made headlines, several butcher shops have cut ties, and a few restaurants have removed the menu items meant for cannibals and ceased all communication.
"Yes, but I'd feel better if we had more to work with."
I give him a half-shrug. "Hey, I welcome you back to the business anytime, old man. It's getting lonely now that Noah doesn't join me anymore."
"No, thank you," he says with a dry laugh. "I'm getting too old for that."
"That's true," I say half-jokingly, biting back a grin.
He throws me a sharp look, but there's no actual heat in it.
"You two, stop it," Mom says, pushing past me to open the freezer and store the sealed meat inside. When she's done, she turns around and wipes her hands on her apron. "It's been weeks. I'd rather hear how my child is doing than listen to the two of you argue."
"Sorry, Mom." I shoot her a smile. "Things have been a little chaotic, but I'm doing well."
