The sun had long since set over the sleepy town where Rody Lamoree and Vincent Charbonneau ran their butcher shop. Shadows crept along the cobbled streets, wrapping the quiet storefronts in darkness. In contrast, the butcher shop stayed open later than most-its yellow light spilling out onto the street like a sickly beacon. The scent of raw meat and iron clung to the air inside, filling the cramped space with a stifling sense of urgency. It had been another long day, and tension buzzed between the two men like static.
Rody slammed the heavy door to the walk-in cooler, his frustration palpable. His thick auburn hair was damp with sweat, and his hands were stained with the day’s work. A deep scowl cut across his tanned face, his green eyes blazing with anger. Vincent stood across from him, calm and composed as always, leaning slightly against the counter. His pale skin seemed ghostly in the flickering light of the overhead lamp, and his black eyes, framed by dark circles, betrayed his exhaustion. He wore a blood-streaked apron over his clothes, his dark hair neat despite the chaos of the day.
It started with something small-an order mixed up, a few words exchanged too sharply. Rody had never been good at keeping his temper in check, but tonight felt different. The pressure of the business weighed on him heavily, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that Vincent wasn’t pulling his weight.
“We can’t keep going like this, Vincent,” Rody snapped, his voice low and heated. “You’re always so damn slow. I end up doing half the work myself.”
Vincent’s lips thinned, but he didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he spoke softly, with a patience that only seemed to stoke the flames in Rody’s chest. “I’m doing my best, Rody. It’s been a rough week for both of us.”
Rody clenched his fists, pacing the narrow space between the counters. “Your best isn’t good enough! We’re drowning in orders, and you just… you just stand there, moving at a snail’s pace like nothing matters. I can’t carry this place on my own!”
Vincent’s expression didn’t change. His calmness only made Rody feel more unhinged. “We’re partners, Rody. I know things are hard, but we need to talk this through, not tear each other apart. I’m here, aren’t I? I’m not the enemy.”
But Rody didn’t hear him, not really. His rage had built too far, too fast, and he needed something-someone-to lash out at. His breath came in harsh, ragged bursts as he approached Vincent, his voice shaking with barely-contained fury.
“Partners?” Rody growled. “You act like you’re doing me some kind of favor by just showing up. I don’t need your excuses! If you can’t keep up, maybe you’re just dead weight after all.”
Vincent took a step back, his expression shifting from placid to something more concerned. He held up a hand, as if trying to calm Rody down, but it only fueled the fire in his chest.
“Rody, stop,” Vincent said, his voice still maddeningly even. “You’re angry, but this isn’t helping. We need to-“
“I said *stop* talking!” Rody shouted, and in a sudden, violent outburst, he shoved Vincent, harder than he meant to.
In an instant, everything changed.
Vincent stumbled, his foot catching on the edge of the worn wooden floor, and his body pitched backward. The shop was filled with the metallic clatter of tools and a dull, sickening thud. Vincent’s back hit the edge of the old meat saw they kept by the counter-a heavy, rusted machine with a jagged, sharp blade. The force of the fall drove the blade deep into his side.
The sound of it-a wet, crunching noise-made Rody freeze. Vincent’s mouth opened in shock, his eyes wide with disbelief as blood bloomed across his apron, staining the white fabric deep red. He didn’t scream, but his breath hitched in his throat, coming out in shallow gasps.
Rody’s heart stopped.
“Vincent,” he whispered, his voice trembling. He rushed forward, dropping to his knees beside his lover, hands hovering over the wound as if he could somehow undo what had just happened. But the blood kept flowing, soaking the saw and pooling beneath them.
Vincent’s eyes fluttered, and he opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out-just a small, strangled sound that echoed in the dark room. His pale fingers twitched as if reaching for Rody, but the strength was already leaving him.
Rody was shaking, his mind a storm of panic and horror. “No, no, no… Vincent, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-please, hold on! I’ll get help, I-“
But it was too late. Vincent’s body shuddered once, then went still, his eyes half-lidded as the life drained from him.
Rody stared down at the body in front of him, his mind reeling. He had killed him. He had killed Vincent. His beloved Vincent.
For a long moment, Rody didn’t move. He couldn’t. His mind was blank, his body frozen. What had he done? How could this have happened?
But then, reality began to seep in. Vincent was gone, and Rody was left alone in the butcher shop, his hands still stained with blood. He couldn’t let go of Vincent-not like this. He couldn’t let Vincent’s body rot. He wouldn’t allow it.
But what could he do?
In desperation, Rody thought of Richard, an old friend of his-an occultist who dabbled in things most people didn’t understand, or even dare to. Richard would know what to do. He had to.
Rody called Richard that night, his voice shaking as he explained what had happened. There was no judgment on the other end of the line, just a calm, measured response.
“I can help,” Richard said, his voice cool and detached. “But it won’t be easy, Rody. If you want to keep him… intact, it’ll require sacrifices. Human sacrifices.”
Rody’s stomach turned, but the thought of losing Vincent was too much to bear. He couldn’t let him go. Not yet. Not ever.
“I’ll do it,” Rody whispered, his voice hollow. “Tell me what I need to do.”
And so it began.
Over the next few weeks, the butcher shop became more than just a place to cut and sell meat. It became a tomb, a shrine to Vincent’s memory. Rody kept his body hidden in the back, carefully following Richard’s instructions on how to preserve it. But each step in the process required a cost-a life for a life.
It started small-drifters, homeless men no one would miss. Rody would lure them in with promises of food or shelter, then strike when they least expected it. The meat saw, the very same one that had taken Vincent’s life, became his weapon of choice. Each time, Rody would feel a momentary surge of disgust, but it quickly passed, replaced by a cold, numb sense of purpose.
It was all for Vincent.
He worked tirelessly, day and night, making sure Vincent’s body stayed pristine, untouched by decay. The sacrifices piled up, their blood seeping into the very walls of the shop, but Rody didn’t care. Nothing mattered anymore, except keeping Vincent with him.
Rody would speak to Vincent’s still form sometimes, whispering apologies, confessions of love, begging for forgiveness. But the dead do not speak, and Vincent’s silence was an eternal reminder of the void Rody had created.
As the days turned into weeks, Rody’s mind began to unravel. He saw Vincent everywhere-in the shadows, in his dreams, in the corners of his vision. Sometimes, he would imagine Vincent speaking to him, softly chastising him for his actions. But Rody would always brush those thoughts aside. He was doing this for Vincent. He had to believe that.
The butcher shop grew quieter with each passing day. Customers stopped coming, either driven away by the stench or by some unspoken, primal fear of the darkness that now lived within its walls.
In the end, all that was left was Rody, Vincent’s preserved corpse, and the blood-soaked memories of what had once been.
And still, Rody clung to him.
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