The scent of blood was in the air, clinging to my nose and throat. It was like a horrible reminder of the way his hands crawled down my body with filthy intentions. The way fear wrapped around my neck so tightly, it felt like a noose.
It reminded me of a lot I'd rather forget about.
The butcher's shop was busy, men working in the back, their knives flashing as they hacked at slabs of meat. The sound of cleavers hitting bone sent chills up my spine.
The moment we stepped inside, my father straightened his shoulders, his presence commanding the entire room.
Conversations died. Heads turned.
The butcher looked up, and his face morphed into that of horrification as he saw my father approaching.
And then my father began his show.
