A short story set in Dirgestadt, the City of In-between, following Anzo the Butcher, a young soul named Lucy, and their kindhearted friendship.
Dong, dong, dong, the clock tower announced a collective misery. Within minutes, citizens spilled into Dirgestadt’s gloomy streets, and green lanterns illuminated their bowed heads. With shrugged shoulders and tucked hats, they warded off the wind and acid rain which washed away any lingering vibrancy. They meandered and bumped into each other, half-uttered apologies dying on their chapped lips, and the streets saw half-life for a moment until they quieted again.
Some ran errands, cut the queue, and argued for a better cup of maggots. Some squandered their earnings in a dingy alleyway, chasing hope or oblivion. Some found the coziness of their homes, their families awaiting. Some had no families. Some dropped midway to their porches, their suffering cadavers worn out at last. Only a few sought a small shop called Butcher’s Wonders, where a giant man currently shifted between the shelves.
He moved slowly, unfazed by the bell, with the gait of someone who has lived upstairs for the past eighty miseries. Bare-chested, with a stained apron taut across his belly, he was rearranging jars. Kept shiny by his meticulousness, grouped by content—eyes, tongues, tendons, fingers, skin, ears, and so on—they greeted the customers as soon as they’d enter.
Creaky floors had been swept the fold before. Tools were soaking in alcohol. Light bulbs had new wires, and the sign showed ‘open’. Everything was perfectly ordinary, as it always was when the bell strikes; however, something was bothering him.
In a curtained corner of the lobby, a set of three mirrors towered around a red-cushioned stool. A set of five lights lay in darkness, awaiting just the flick of a switch to bathe customers in glorious radiance. This was where the process ends—a grand reveal after a fine tuning, a final curtain after which lives are inverted. He approached, kicked the lingering dust, and checked for creases in red leather, patched a few. Metallic squeaks bounced against the walls as he tightened the stool’s leg. Mirrors reflected his imposing presence as he ran his coarse thumb along its cracks. Three new black crevices stared at him from the smooth silver. It will need replacement, he thought.
He winced at large panels that emphasized his misshapen head. Deep dents undulated under his rough skin, strewn with different patches. It had neither colors of humanity rather a sickly gray, like the facade of an unremarkable building left to crumble in on itself. His bulbous nose did not belong to him; his stumpy ear was insufficient for proper existence. His eyes were hollow, lost in a past when he was whole, in the Upper Life, when misery was a misfortune and not a measurement of time. Fingers slid and dropped across his scarred face; this too will need replacement, he thought.
His gaze went towards the counter. A glass bowl labeled ‘tips’ stood on it, and inside a single soul coin lay. Many hands had polished its black metal, and the usual green shimmer was faint. In fact, the coin was so lonely, the soul inside might as well have packed its bags and found a more profitable tradesman. Butcher sighed and continued with upkeep.
It is sometime between his inspection of the frugal shop window, which had a couple of posters displaying amazed people gawking at each other’s faces, and his complaints about the flickering lamp post, which made the street even more eerie than usual, when she appeared. And his face lit up.
#
“So, pumpkin, how was the day?” Butcher asked with a resonant voice as he poured tea. A quick stir displaced a ghostly green face forming on its surface.
The girl looked up, and the world seemed to shrink and disappear into her eyes, both dark, one with a milky veneer. With a tattered sleeve, she wiped her partially chewed nose and tucked a stray lock behind her ear. She sipped the tea, tilting her head so it wouldn’t spill out of a gaping hole in her cheek.
“Well, it started rough with a lot of rejections, and rain ate through my umbrella. Buuut”—she dragged the word, barely containing her smile—“I’ve got an interview!” Butcher clapped and let out a table-shaking laugh.
“That’s the best news, pumpkin! Is it a good one?”
“Mhm, very,” she said and lowered her voice to a whisper, her face jubilant. “I’d be an assistant to an officer in the Ministry of Migration!”
“Oh my!”
“Yup! They even said there’s a chance I get promoted, and if I do an excellent job—“
“which you will.”
“—which I will—I’ll be eligible for Surface transfer!”
Butcher’s mouth opened, his eyes wide, frozen, like a sailor before a crushing wave. He mustered a thin, flat smile.
“Anzo? Anzo, are you alright?” the girl asked with a tenderness unsuitable for Dirgestadt. He placed the cup on the saucer, stood up, and kissed the top of her head.
“Let’s get to work then.”
#
Lucy sat patiently in the treatment chair in the back of the shop. A singular lamp bathed naked walls in tones of honey and flax. She’s been visiting Butcher for the past few miseries, helping with small errands in exchange for cadaveric refurbishments. It’s a fantastic cadaver, one she was lucky to get when the government organized the lottery—not out of the goodness of their hearts but as a prophylactic against rebellion. After she’d drawn the winning number as a bodiless spirit, and done all the paperwork for which only the undead had the patience, her soul has been inserted and she started enjoying her new Lower Life. But that was a while ago, and her time below had proven hard on her body and mind; Dirgestadt made sure of it.
She couldn’t hold a job because employers were jealous. The high class deemed her too young a soul for them to have anything to do with; the working class thought she was too whole, too alive, too caring. She was a stark reminder of luck’s bias and uncertainty, a spark of reality which burned people’s dreams to ash. The streets were the only thing that didn’t judge. Their denizens, both ghostly beggars and bodied scoundrels, circled her like vultures around a carcass to strip her of her fortune. Her visits to Butcher were mostly the result of these attacks. One day, after she had lost a finger to a crazy old lady who had already eaten all of her own, Butcher got worried and had been escorting her home ever since.
“Whabout the milky one?” Butcher yelled from somewhere between the shelves, snapping her from thoughts.
“I dunno, Anzo. Can we make it orange?”
“Aye, we can tint the iris, after we replace the whole thing.”
“But that’s an expensive color, isn’t it?”
“Worry not, pumpkin, we’ll make you the best we can”, he said whistling, and the jars clinked. He emerged, eyes shiny, arms brimming with paraphernalia. Organic sutures were sterilized, an eyeball gently floated in the jar, a magnifier was nestled between his brow and cheek.
“Alright, let’s see…”
#
The procedures were painless—undead do not feel, except the sorrows of their own souls. Still, he had to be careful, like a mechanic whose hands are deep inside an old engine, knowing one wrong move could ruin everything.
“You’ll lose vision in your left now. You might get dizzy.”
“I don’t mind”, she said.
Slowly, he removed the eye with forceps, cut the nerve, and tossed it into a waste container. Usually he’d repair and resell, but not hers. Her parts are special, purified by the soul that inhabited them. He cleaned up the cavity and checked for other damages.
“You’ll have to keep up with tea, pumpkin, especially after this one. Two cups a day—“
“—keeps White Wardens away,” she chimed in.
A smile formed on his lips. It was angular like a staircase, broken by numerous scars. He opened the jar, grabbed the eye and injected soul distillate inside. Pink color spread over flesh like lilies woken in a meadow.
“There we go”, he chuckled, allowing pride to sneak into his voice.
“Hands of the finest surgeon, heart of a saint!” Lucy exclaimed, but Butcher averted his gaze and adjusted magnifier gears.
“I dunno ‘bout saint”, he chuckled. “Seems like too high a compliment and lots of ‘sponsibility.”
“Which you are no stranger to.” She flung her arms out wide towards the lobby, taking in the whole shop with the gesture.
“Stay still, pumpkin. This is the tricky part.”
#
The honey-hued lamp, Butcher’s most loyal companion, shone deep into Dwelling shift as the quiet of streets spilled inside. They talked, and the work flowed. She spoke about her past Upper Life with hope and excitement; he nodded and smiled, the memories of his now only dusty photos in the dark corners of his mind. She was sure she’d get another chance, and he believed her, and that made his chest tight.
Flick! Flick! Flick!
Five sets of lights bathed Lucy as she spun on the red-cushioned stool. Her smile was wide and complete, the gaping hole patched; eyes beautiful and heterochromic; hair voluminous; nose thin and snub.
“Anzo, you’re an artist!” she cheered.
Butcher waved dismissively and checked for any last details he’d missed.
“You’ll get me all red. ‘Tis my job”, he said snipping a loose thread at the back of her head. “Come now; let’s get you home. Big day on the morrowfold.”
He grabbed a coat the size of a tent and a rusty umbrella.
#
Cold air swept away lingering creatures like an invisible hand, and acid pelted down on the cobbled streets. Hisses rose with every droplet, followed by swirling white smoke. The world looked like a soaked watercolor painting, a smudged blend of green and gray.
Every now and then, a ghost emerged from the ground begging for a few moments of possession; lurking half-lives screeched after passerby, yearning for a piece of flesh. But no one dared to approach the girl and the giant.
“You think we’re cursed down here, Anzo?” she asked after some time. They crossed the bridge and covered a couple more streets before he replied. She didn’t rush him, the same way he didn’t belittle her optimism.
“I think we messed up above. Or have unfinished business.”
“Did you mess up? I think I messed up. I should’ve lived more like I wanted, and…” She found his face stiff and they made a couple of corners in silence.
“This ministry officer, is he proper?” Butcher asked.
“Don’t know yet, but I heard he’s married to the job.”
“Right. Some people do that when they haven’t got anything else.”
She laughed.
“What?”
“Some people,” she nudged him.
“Yeah, some.”
The shadows danced to the rain’s rhythm, and the moon didn’t show up because there wasn’t one. Lucy spoke about the mistakes she had made, how stupid she was, and how she’d live a better life this time. Butcher hummed and told her that mistakes made her who she was. A ball of joy and light, he said.
“I think I’m more of a triangle. Pointy edges, you know”, she said, raising her eyebrow.
That’s what she believed, and that was why Butcher had to walk her home, and why he did it without hesitation.
#
The Slums opened up before them like an expired can of tuna. Grime clung to decrepit buildings, and filth flowed down the narrow streets until it merged with the sea. They walked on, skipping over fallen people, ignoring the scenery; he got used to it, and she was beyond the reach of dismal things.
“This is you, pumpkin.”
Lucy hugged him, unable to fully encompass his body, their silhouettes framed by the doorframe.
“I’ll see you on the morrowfold, Anzo, after Earnings.”
“I’ll see you, little one”, he grumbled gently.
#
Next Earnings passed by. Then a few more. Cadavers worked themselves to the bone, but the world didn’t relent. The bell in Butcher’s Wonders scarcely rang, and when it did, it was more likely due to strong wind than to customers.
Lucy’s visits thinned; the ministry never keeps a good horse in stables. Their meetings grew rarer; every third or fourth misery now. When they eventually got to see each other, they drank tea and she talked about her news, and he nodded because he didn’t have any. She spoke about the job, how vicious it was, how she was managing the governmental world, and how, luckily, the officer who employed her recognized her talents and hard work.
One Dwelling, when nothing was left from tea but a glistening residue, she mustered her strength and told him she had gotten the transfer. She was leaving soon. He froze again, this time for almost an eternity, and then returned the cup to the saucer, hugged her, kissed her forehead, and said he’d never doubted. And he hadn’t. If anyone deserved it, it was her, he said. She didn’t belong in Dirgestadt anyway.
#
Anzo walked her home for the last time. She cried. He would have done the same, but couldn’t because he had no tear glands. I’ll never forget you, she told him, and thanked him for all he had done. He dropped a round metal into her coat pocket and comforted her even though he was hurting too. He put her to bed, and she tried to wring the feelings out of her body, drenching the pillow. Moments before slumber took her away, she murmured. Butcher stopped at the door.
“I’ll never forget you”, she whispered. He held the knob so tightly that his hands turned pale.
“I’ll never…” she started but the sentence died on her lips.
#
Lucy was reborn a baby with a dashing smile in a loving, wealthy family, and her mind became a blank canvas again. They all had heterochromia—one dark eye, the other bright orange.
#
Butcher’s Wonders lay in darkness and silence, somberly empty without a giant man to shift back and forth between its shelves. A thick layer of dust covered the floor and the counter, where a glass bowl labeled ‘tips’ stood.
It was empty.
He’d never replaced that mirror set. The green street light still flickered. The acid rain scarred the facade, which still resembled its sometime owner.
People say Butcher closed miseries ago, ever since that lucky brat stopped visiting him. They say he started gambling and that he lost the shop at the bottom of a deck of cards or a bottle. But people don’t know much about Butcher because he rarely opened up to anyone.
People say he used to fix the smiles of others and laugh because he never fixed his own.
