Char the Butcher

old writing

I first wrote this about 3-4 years ago.  Considering what’s happened in that time, I suppose it isn’t a surprise that this piece makes me feel a little strange.

Part 1

I’d owned the boots for years, and they had seen decent use. Black attire fits most any occasion. I’d strutted and stomped in these through most of my adult life. The toes were scuffed and the leather was beginning to develop cracks. The blatant neglect was an accusing finger, damning me as fainéant and careless before the severe jury of my mind.

I use a small brush first. I rub it around the polish tin, feeling like an artist at the palette. The polish is applied in small, hard circles. The ugly scuffs darken, and the cracks begin to fill. I work the brush over the rest of the boot slowly, taking my time, massaging each curve, tracing each seam, filling the pores of the leather with new black life.

The small, hard-bristled brush is exchanged for the larger polish brush. I use firm, solid strokes to burnish the boot. A dark shine begins to develop. The blemishes at the toes, wounds from countless forgotten confrontations, have exchanged their dull grey pallor for a light black glimmer. The scars are still visible, like the stretch and shine of a years-old skin burn, but they seem to have gained confidence and acceptance in the care and treatment of the polish. The boots are no longer the tools of barbaric thuggery, but the attire of an experienced officer. I am reflected in their gleam, and I am pleased.

Part 2

What a face.

My mind draws instant comparisons. The smallest imperfection, blemish or scab, and I’m gone. I’m lost in what was once my hated home: smelling of sweat and chemicals (but mostly chemicals), fingers twitching with thoughtless energy (brittle bones snapping in their fleshy sheaths), cheeks cracked and peeling with abuse and neglect that alternates with thoughtless, unstoppable attention. (Scrub the blood from the skin with steel wool; scrape the filth away on the coarse brick wall.) The vision is painted in wide brushstrokes of loathing. Hair, teeth, fingernails and skin are all replaced with soiled rags and garbage bags. The stench of personal effluence is enough to make people’s eyes water as they pass by on the other side of the street. I gag at the memory and the thought and clutch at the sink, forcing myself back into the clean, well-lit bathroom. That face, though. Each flaw a reminder, each imperfection a threat from the past- something must be done.

I shave. Hot water scalds my face and neck gloriously, painfully pink. Shaving cream is rubbed onto my sandpaper chin. I pull the razor down each cheek and up my neck, first, then rinse, reapply the cream, and shave against the growth. My skin is as smooth as I can make it, but the dark brown shadow across the bottom of my face remains a dull disappointment. I cover it- first with cream, then with powder. The shadow is buried under shades of alabaster and pearl. The imperfections are suffocated by a pure, uniform shell of ivory. I meet the gaze of the figure in the mirror, and I am finally able to breathe. This is not a face that has slept on a sewer grating. These eyes have never been blackened, and this mouth has never spit blood. Wearing this radiant visage, I shed each of my imperfections.

Lipstick is applied. Tonight is special, and I wish for my appearance to celebrate this fact. Electric blue lips smile back at me as I put the finishing touches on the violet eye shadow. I select a wig to crown this face of mine. My appearance has become my creation, not an accident of genetics, and I allow myself to take pride in it. The dark tresses fall about my ears and tickle the back of my neck. They dangle down before my shoulders as I lean forward to pull on my newly polished boots. I no longer helplessly wear this husk of a body, but use it as a frame over which to drape the raiment of my passion. One last look at this figure, this moving work of art who was once only a person, and I flounce out of the door and into the world.