I tried to speak up through the pain, but my words only brought harsher scolding.
“But I smell something rotting coming from the cabinet and it's getting worse …” I tried to explain.
“You keep going on and on about some terrible smell ... so what if you did smell something? It’s not like it’s killing you. You’re still walking, talking, eating just fine, aren’t you? I’ve never heard of someone being killed by a bad smell. Can’t you just stop already?”
“If you keep acting this way, don’t blame us for being harsh. I’ll say you’re crazy and send you to a mental hospital to experience what it’s like there, so you stop complaining and bothering us.”
The coldness and ruthlessness in my mother's words made me not dare to say another word because I knew she meant it.
I could only lean on the kitchen door to stand up, secretly wipe away my tears and continue cooking for them.
With no other option, I followed the butcher’s advice and prepared the two pounds and four ounces of meat for them to eat.
The meat looked totally normal. Nothing seemed off, there was no weird look or unusual smell. I stared at it for a long time, but couldn’t find anything wrong. Even when they ate it, no one noticed anything unusual.
I honestly thought the butcher had tricked me.
But the next morning, when I woke up, I smelled a new stench. It was coming from my father’s body, mixed with a burnt smell.
Nervously, I stepped closer and the burnt smell on him grew even stronger.
Suddenly, the butcher’s words echoed in my mind.
“The eviller deeds one commits, the more meat they eat and the stronger the odor becomes, to the point where one can even smell their malice.”
That burning odor smelled like the aftermath of a massive fire. A mixture of the scent of charred wood, resin and meat. This instantly conjured up images in my head of a house engulfed in flames.
Without thinking, I asked, “Dad… was there ever a fire in our house before?”
My father paused, his sharp gaze darting toward me, including my mother and younger brother. Their eyes grew serious.
“Why are you asking such a thing?”
“Oh, no reason,” I said quickly. “I just saw a pretty fresh burn scar on your hand and I couldn’t remember how you got it. So, I ask.”