Young Butcher

When I was young, I cared too much. I would cry over a dead moth on the sidewalk, a crushed daisy, a broken toy. I once cried when I had to chop off a My Little Pony’s hair because of the plastic hairbrush tangled in its mane.

I guess by the sixth grade I had used up my allotted empathy, because that year consisted of nothing but the most reprehensible decisions a child could make. All of them were on the spot, as if my tiny brain had been momentarily possessed by a demon, but there was one in particular that even now fills me with the guilt I could not feel at the time.

***

I had a friend- Jillian Evans. She and I met at the beginning of the sixth grade, in the standard queer fashion- we both noticed something familiar in the other, something we couldn’t quite identify, and sought each other out. We became fast friends, and soon we were inseparable.

Jillian was tall for her age with an almost athletic build, I remember envying her for it. Her hair was always highlighted with some unnatural shade, usually something obnoxiously bright. On the day that we went to Main Street, her hair had, despite my encouragement to keep its original shade, been colored with streaks of lime green.

We were dropped off on Main Street in the late morning, and given five hours to spend some time together. It was early July, and sweltering hot, but it was the last day we’d see each other before we went off to our respective summer camps. We kept ourselves as cool as possible with thermoses full of water, and rainbow fans we got from the pride table at our local fair.

There wasn’t much to do, but we kept busy with constant banter and gossip. We walked up and down the street, waving at our friends through the window of the dance studio, buying custard from Rita’s, staying in the convenience store for thirty minutes just to keep cool.

By the time we had done everything we could think of, I checked my watch. It had barely been an hour and a half. We still had hours before we would be picked up. Looking back, maybe we should have called Jillian’s mom to get us earlier, but instead we walked in the shade through the nearby graveyard, gazing up at the Spanish moss that draped the surrounding oak trees.

Past the graveyard, the sidewalk had moss growing through the cracks and roots pushed up the red bricks. We amused ourselves leaping over the lumps the roots made, imagining we were jumping waves in the ocean. I remembered thinking that soon I would be at my summer house, actually by the beach, but I wouldn’t be there with Jillian.

I think she was the one who saw it first, a strange object lying on the sidewalk, almost blending in due to its similar shade. It was some sort of meat, pinkish red and completely raw.

“Who would leave a hamburger patty just lying on the sidewalk?” she asked.

“Maybe they dropped it,” I shrugged, about to move on. But then the part of my me I tried to hold back was pushing to the surface. As I often did at that age, I had a terrible thought.

I believe Jillian said something then, but I didn’t hear it over the ringing in my ears. I had some sort of inexplicable rage at the time, like a snake coiled up inside me always waiting to strike. And now it was finally getting its chance.

“Do you know what would be really funny?” I started to grin, “You should eat it.”

“You can’t eat raw meat,” Jillian laughed, “That thing would kill me!”

“It’s been cooked enough by the sun,” I said, “It’s so hot out here, there’s no way any bacteria could survive under these conditions!”

“I really don’t think I should.”

“I dare you.”

Jillian laughed again, still thinking I was joking, “You first.”

I picked the patty up, taking a bite. It wasn’t terrible tasting, but the texture was unbearable. I pointed at Jillian.

I handed her the meat, which was starting to fall apart in my hands, and spit out my mouthful in a nearby trash can.

“That doesn’t count!” she protested, “It doesn’t count if you don’t swallow it.”

“Fine. Show me how it’s done, then.”

She took a bite. Swallowed. She took another.

Soon the patty was gone. I felt a strange sense of satisfaction, as if I was the one who had accomplished something.

***

A week later, I got a phone call.

“Charlie? Are you there?”

“Yeah, who is this?

“This is Jill’s mom. I was letting you know that she’s a bit sick, and can’t hang out with you today.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“She has E. Coli, of all things. Don’t worry though, she should be-”

“Huh,” I hung up.

I remembered wondering why I didn’t feel bad. I even felt a little proud of myself, for being capable of causing pain.