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And The Crimson

An oak lined room hardly shows shadows. He hadn’t been in this room since his first day on the job. A hired hermit. Four years in he knew the schedule of his employers. Costumes rotate in order. A calendar of cloth. An upcoming occasion of the daughter’s wedding threw his usual routine. Professional entertainers were to lead the night instead. This was his opportunity. He waited until the night before. Until a reliable 3am. He started with the stocked fridges. Layers of red meat looked like the insides of limestone. Snaked. Packed enough to bulge out of chromed bars. Layer by layer he pulled the meat. Cold and silky, it molded just how he wanted it. These sheets of meat would have billowed if they could. Across counter tops, cloaking bookshelves, covering clocks, hanging over doors in the form of bed linen found in crowded houses. In the manor, they had everything. And now meat on top of that slowly cooking in the wrong temperatures. He thrilled at the waste and the stink from his efforts. By 6am he finished. Kitchen, dining room, summer living room, hallway, the oak room and the main stairwell. As he exited through the back door he took pleasure in looking back at his work. The early light created high shadows. They extended his years of beard. He was bigger by illusion, his favourite form of grandeur.