Butcher

By Rida Shahariyar

Julian had always known two things: knives, and attention.

The knives came first. He was seven when he first learned how to break down a carcass, hunched on a stool beside his mother in the kitchen, the smell of raw beef soaking into the wooden counters like it had always belonged there. His mother never said much when she butchered meat, just moved like the knives were a part of her body, like the joint between wrist and steel had fused long ago. She had come to America alone, opened a restaurant, raised a boy, and stayed sharp enough to keep it all from falling apart. Julian watched her carve meat with the same reverence that other boys saved for baseball.

The attention came later.

He was eleven when he got his first camera. A grainy Walmart model with a crack near the lens—and by twelve, he was uploading videos of himself cooking in that same meat-stained kitchen. No one cared at first. His hands were clumsy, his voice too soft, the quality too low. But when he turned fourteen, something changed.

That was when he started cooking meat. Just meat. Not burgers or fancy pasta. Meat the way it was before it became food. Bone-in, bloody, primal.

He showed everything. The cutting, the skinning, the removal of tendons and fat. He made a video titled “From Cow to Plate” and posted it without much thought. A week later, it had over 300,000 views. A Reddit thread titled “Why is this child so good with a knife?” had gone viral. People weren’t just impressed, they were disturbed. Which only made them watch more.

Julian showed the video to his mother. She didn’t understand at first, but she nodded. Then she bought him a better camera.

He never stopped. Over the next decade, he carved his way through every animal the law would allow, and a few it probably wouldn’t. Cow, pig, lamb, goat, fish, rabbit, quail. He skinned them, gutted them, roasted them whole, and plated them like museum pieces. Every cut, every burn, every sizzle was captured for an audience that grew and grew.

And for a while, that was enough.

But something started to shift. A static in his brain, a low hum like meat sizzling too long on a hot grill. It started with thoughts.

Not loud ones. Just flickers.

They whispered. Small things at first. Stab that man. Cut off a finger. Peel your arm like citrus.

He didn’t act on them. Most people didn’t. He told himself that he was fine. Everyone had thoughts.

But most people weren’t surrounded by knives. Most people didn’t spend twelve hours a day filming flesh.

He told himself it didn’t mean anything until the day he looked down at his own leg and thought,

meat.

It made sense. In a way, it was the only thing that ever had. If you want to know how meat cooks, you should know how it feels. And Julian didn’t hate anyone, not enough to kill. But he could take from himself. That was ethical. That was safe. That was art.

His mother was at the restaurant. She always was. She slept in her office most nights anyway.

Julian laid out a tarp in the bathroom, brought a plate, a roll of paper towels, a bottle of peroxide, and a tray of knives. He selected his carving knife. He sat on the cold tile, legs stretched out, staring at his calf. He wasn’t suicidal. He told himself that. He wasn’t trying to die. Just harvest. Just enough to taste.

He shaved his leg first. Just the left calf. He selected his boning knife. He held it to the skin and pushed.

It didn’t go in.

It shuddered. Vibrated against his muscle like it was rejecting him. Then it sank.

Not a slice. A grind. The knife caught on muscles and nerves. He sobbed, not out of fear but frustration. It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t precise. It was ugly.

Blood spurted—not dripped, not oozed—spurted, fast and hot. It splashed the tiles, hit the wall, got in his eye.

He screamed through clenched teeth. Bent over. Pressed harder.

When he hit bone, it was like striking a pipe. He scraped along it, flensing the flesh like rind from a citrus. The smell shifted. Not copper anymore. Iron.

The pain was nothing like he expected. It didn’t fade or numb. It multiplied.

But he kept going. He carved out a square. Three sides. The fourth wouldn’t let go.

It was taking too long. He switched knives.

He grabbed a grapefruit spoon with a serrated edge. Better for gouging. He dug in. Scraped until the muscle tore loose, dangling from one last tendon. He held it up, panting, blood running down his elbow. A single square of meat. Red. Dense. Warm

He needed skin. Skin was what made sushi rolls hold together. He switched blades. Pressed shallow, horizontal this time, then peeled upwards with trembling fingers.The sensation nearly made him vomit.

He took three flaps. Not enough, but he was bleeding too fast. The dizziness came in waves. He fumbled for gauze, for tape, for peroxide.

When it hit the wound, he blacked out.

He woke on the tile, face pressed to a paper towel crusted with his own dried blood. The room smelled like copper and alcohol. His leg was wrapped, his plate across the room. The meat looked darker now. Still usable.

He limped to the kitchen. The rice was ready. The avocado and cucumber were fresh. He turned on the camera.

He didn’t clean up. Blood streaked his face, his hair was stuck to his temple, his pupils too wide. He didn’t care.

He built the roll like any other meal. Skin on the bottom, rice, vegetables, and strips of raw human flesh. He rolled it tight. He sliced it clean. The blood bled into the rice, blooming in slow, pink clouds. Like ink in milk.

He didn’t speak. He usually did. This time, he was silent. He held a single piece up to the camera, smiling with the kind of joy reserved for new fathers and madmen. Then he ate it.

It tasted spoiled. Strange. It was the best thing he’d ever had.

He uploaded the video without editing. No intro. No music. No title card. Just him, chewing, savouring.

Then he went back for seconds.

By Rida Shahariyar