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They don’t care who he was.

I lean against the fence, catching my breath as they devour what I’ve given them.

“Eat every last drop,” I murmur, watching them root and tear. “You’ve earned it.”

One of the sows lifts her snout, bloodied and dripping, and snorts loudly. I smile faintly. “Don’t look at me like that. You’re the clean-up crew. I’m just the butcher.”

They grunt and shove and fight, and I let them. I trust them more than I’ve ever trusted a man.

Back inside, I return to the body. The liver is next, dense and dark like overripe fruit. The kidneys follow, tucked like secrets against the spine. I work methodically, freeing each organ with practiced care, placing them into bags for later disposal. I reach for the cleaver. The blade is heavy, its edge sharp but stained from use. I bring it down hard. The ribs crack on impact, brittle from malnutrition but stubborn in their final stand. It takes several strikes, each one sending shockwaves up my arms. Sweat beads on my brow. My breath grows shallow, more from rage than exertion.

With the chest caved open, the heart takes the most effort. It resists, thick arteries holding it in place like guilt. I cut them anyway. When it finally comes free, I hold it in my palm a moment longer than I should. It’s lighter than I expected.

No wonder it failed to feel anything.

When I’m finally done, the table is a slick canvas of blood, bile, and shattered bone.

He’s no longer a man.

Just pieces.

Just waste.

And I know exactly where to put waste.

I spread the tarp across the floor and start loading it, piece by piece, until the bundle is heavy enough to drag. It makes it easier to move, but not by much. My boots slip against the blood-slicked floor, causing me to stumble as I drag the first bundle toward the door. I hear the pigs’ grunts grow louder as I open the door.

Outside, the air bites sharp against my skin. The ground is uneven, the frost-crusted dirt catching the edges of the tarp as I drag it toward the pen. My breath clouds in front of me, each exhale ragged and shallow. The first bundle goes over the fence with a heave, landing with a muffled thump in the mud. The pigs swarm immediately, their snorts turning to squeals as they root through the contents. I stand there for a moment, watching as they tear into the flesh, their teeth sinking into the soft flesh with wet, crunching sounds. My mouth starts to pool with saliva. I think I might be sick. Breathing through my nose, I inhale the putrid smell of mud, shit, blood and flesh, but my urge to vomit starts to wane. The sight is almost hypnotic, the way they devour every scrap without hesitation.

When the pen is full, and there’s nothing left to carry, I let the tarp drop by the fence. The pigs’ noises fade into the background as I turn back to the shed. My movements are methodical now, the adrenaline of the moment giving way to a dull fatigue. Tools first. I gather the saw, the scalpel, and drop them in the bucket, my arms heavy with everything I’ve just done.

Behind the shed, the faucet sputters to life, releasing an icy stream that churns as it hits the steel bucket. My gloves, slick with grime, are awkward as I scrub, the bristles of the brush catching against the grooves of the saw. Blood streaks through the water, swirling in dark ribbons before spilling over the bucket’s edge and soaking the dirt. The cold numbs my fingers, but I keep working, and the ache in my muscles is a welcome distraction. My fingers sting with each pass of the brush, the numbing cold creeping up to my wrists.

The tarp is the hardest, slick and resistant, the folds trapping the remnants of my work like stubborn stains. I rinse it again, until the water runs clear. My back burns and I would give anything to drop everything and go inside to rest, but I need to finish this. I don’t want to get lazy or mistakes might happen. My shoulders burn from the effort, but I welcome the ache. It’s grounding, a reminder that I’m alive. I glance down at the streaks of red left on my gloves, tracing the lines as if they hold answers. This is a ritual now. A process. Scrub away the evidence, rinse, repeat. It’s almost meditative, the rhythm of cleaning easing the noise in my mind.

Almost.

By the time I’m finished, the stars are visible overhead, cold and distant, their light indifferent to the secrets I’ve buried. My breath puffs in the air, each exhale a reminder of what the land demands, and what it gives in return.

The shed is a wreck. Every corner bearing the evidence of what I’ve done. Blood pools unevenly across the wooden planked floor, dark and congealing, mingling with streaks of mud I’ve tracked in. The smell has soaked into the wood grain by now, something thick and black at the back of my throat that no amount of open air seems to touch.

I drop to my knees, gripping the rag tightly as I press it against the slick surface. The fabric sops up the mess sluggishly, the crimson stain blooming outward like some grotesque flower. The motion is mechanical, the push and pull of my arm steady, deliberate, even as my shoulders scream in protest. Every stroke feels heavier than the last; my muscles leaden, but I don’t stop.

I can’t stop.

My eyes dart to the far corner of the room where his chair sits empty now, the restraints hanging limp like forgotten nooses. The sight sends a ripple of unease through me, though I push it down, bury it. It’s done. He’s gone.

But the floor still remembers.

A bitter thought creeps in, curling around the edges of my mind. This isn’t who I was supposed to be. The daughter of a preacher, a servant of God. A wife. A mother. A woman who knits in her rocking chair while the pie cools on the windowsill. My father’s vision for me feels laughable now, like a life meant for someone else entirely. Someone small. Someone who doesn’t see what I see.

The rag slips from my grasp, landing with a wet smack against the floor. I sit back on my heels, wiping a hand across my forehead, smearing sweat and grime into my skin. My breathing is shallow and ragged, and I let the silence settle for a moment.

I stare down at my hands, the nails rimmed with dirt and blood. This is who I am now. The shed is my confessional, the rag my penance. Every scrub, every drop of sweat, is a reminder of why I do this. I glance toward the drain in the center of the floor, where the water and blood spiral together in a grotesque dance before disappearing into the abyss. It’s not murder, I think, the words steady and sharp in my mind. It’s justice.

My father, the man who silenced my screams with scripture and carved his sins into my skin, would call this a sin. He’d condemn me with venom, spewing verses to justify his control, his cruelty. But he can’t speak now, and even if he could, I wouldn’t listen. I know the truth: he built the rot I’m tearing apart. He watched the wolves devour me and called it God’s plan. So now, I’m the one cleaning this world of men like him, scraping their filth from the earth one severed piece at a time.

I press the rag against the floor again, harder this time, the muscles in my arm trembling with the effort. They don’t deserve a clean death, not after what they’ve done. The thought is cold and firm. It settles over me like armor, shielding me from the ghosts that linger in the corners of this space. The ghosts of the men who believed they could hurt me and walk away unscathed. The ghosts of the little girl who prayed for salvation that never came.