Present
The savory smell of roast deer and vegetables permeates the air in the small house, the scent wafting along my nose as I drag the heavy ax into the kitchen. The solid metal hits the wall as I drop it, the handle slowly peeling away from my bloodied palm.
My fingers leave behind a smudged print as I turn on the tap for the well outside, dousing my hands under the frigid water, trying desperately to scrub away the thick, coagulating fluid. Its crimson color seeps into my skin, staining it, and leaving behind the evidence of my sin.
Another sin to add to the growing pile of evil that is Beverly Hill.
My stomach growls as dinner continues to cook, reminding me I missed breakfast this morning. I was too busy searching through our gardening shed outside for the ax. It was buried among the barrels of manure and rolls of tarp, no longer needed for firewood. We installed radiators recently, all new heating for the new family. You couldn’t let a delicate lady freeze, apparently, especially when smoke from the chimney triggers nausea.
Father won’t be home for another hour, he’ll expect dinner on the table, and his dutiful wife serving him, her appreciation for radiators all over her face. He’ll chew into his tough, well-done roast, then drag his carrots through the gravy before slurping them into his mouth, his beard dotted with the juices.
I look down at the small kitchen oven, the cast iron door shut tight, and my stomach once again breaks the surrounding silence. After shutting off the water, I grab the oven mitt, no longer caring about my blood-stained hands. I never did like my roast well-done.
My mitten-covered hands grab the pot, and I haul it out, inhaling the potent scent of herbs and venison. Saliva gathers in my mouth as I drop the hot casserole dish on the table, uncaring if the heat destroys the newly stained surface. The cover is tossed to the side as I sit in Father’s chair, grabbing a fork and knife.
The first bite of the succulent, medium-rare meat has me falling back in my seat, my head tipping back, and an unladylike groan escaping my throat. This is the way meat is supposed to be consumed. Why do people want to drain it of every last bit of juice? You might as well be gnawing on tree bark.
Once I’ve eaten my fill, I stare into the pot and swallow down my trepidation. He’s going to be mad. Panic swells as I continue staring at the destroyed dinner, whimpering when I realize this will only worsen his mood. Not to mention, it was our last bit of meat in the house.
Or is it?
My eyes flick to the ceiling and my teeth gnash into my bottom lip, the roast’s juices still lining my flesh. I suck it into my mouth, running my tongue along its surface and gathering what flavor is left, all the while staring at the ceiling.
I think I could make him another well-done roast, after all. Besides, isn’t that what daughters are for?