The Butcher

I’m in love with this lamp!!!!!!!!

Brianne Writes

By Brianne Barkley


My stomach soured the first time he walked through the door, a foreign smell trailing behind him. He would scuttle into the darkest corner, which was nearly pitch black in that dreary old bar, and would sit facing the whole room.

His gaze followed every person that entered the bar.  Man or woman, it didn’t seem to matter. He eyed them with the sick air that a butcher would as the cows rolled in: which would make the juiciest steak or the softest leather?

On one rare night, he ordered a drink – water with lemon, I recall – and as I passed it to him his eyes lingered on my hand. I remember him wetting his lips, sticky saliva slapping together, and I couldn’t help but shudder.  I had met some vile people in my profession – being the only waitress at a dead-end bar…

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