Fractal Realities: Slaughterhouse Eight

He absolutely hated this job. No matter how loud he turned his music up, the sound of metal on metal always cut through. If it wasn't cleavers being perpetually honed on sharpening rods, it was skinning knives making contact with the carcass hooks.

When he had started this job, he had found the smells of the place severely nauseating. The odors of blood, bile, piss and shit were inescapable. They had seemed to form a coating on his tongue, one that could be tasted for many long hours after his shifts, one that alcohol seemed unable to erase. Over time, he had adjusted and the scents became more tolerable. He no longer vomited at work, and usually only once when he got home each day.

The whispers of the knives was something he seemed unable to adjust to, though. In the subharmonics, he could hear the silenced voices of the suspended cadavers, accusing him of complicity in their murders. If he didn't quit, he knew the day was coming when he would need to avenge them if he was to have any peace at all.