White Meat by Rita Kruger

White Meat by Rita Kruger
Copyright Rita Kruger

You wash your hands repeatedly. The water runs down the drain in crimson rivers. The blood. God, so much blood. You wait for the water to turn clear before you reach for the soap. You rub it liberally over your hands and forearms, watching the suds turn pinkish. You rinse under scolding water. Closing the tap, you open the cabinet above the basin, groping to find the nailbrush.
As you soap up the bristles, images of your day flashes through your mind. The naked soft white skin under your fingers. The knife in your hands. The first cut. The layers of skin, fat, flesh and bone. Life’s wonder revealed to your eyes. There are moments when you stand amazed at the body’s beauty. You remember with a smile how intricately everything fits together.
You stripped the cadaver completely: organs to one side, tough cuts heaped in a bowl, away from prime meat, then excess fat and bone. Each will be disposed of differently. Organs, bones and fat goes to a dog food factory at edge of town, prime cuts to restaurants, tough meats to a local butcher. You might keep some for yourself. Your wife makes a mean pork stew.

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