I started flensing because I thought it was something I could do in the days, something that wouldn’t take up a whole lot of mental space when I was off the clock, which would ensure I had plenty of time to work on my art. My art was going to be my ticket out of here.
I don’t even smell the blubber anymore. I can smoke an entire cigarette without ever taking it out of my mouth. I’ve developed the one-eyed squint I see in pictures of my father, and his father.
Would you believe me if I told you I wasn’t a horrible person? That I love animals, and that that love has not abated since I became a flenser, only become abstracted in this way that disturbs me when I think about it? Abstracted in the same way that while I would not harm another human being, I dream at night of taking the flensing blade to my wife, slicing off the long strips either side of her spine, shoulder blade to just below her enormous ass.
Would you believe me if I told you I fear that some day my hands will–as now they slice bricks of fat from whales without my thinking about it–become fully autonomous?
Would you believe me if I told you I was afraid of what my hands might do of their own volition?
