The summer of 1904 was particularly hot, the air thick with humidity and the scent of earth and hay. People kept to their routines, their lives revolving around the rhythm of the seasons and the narrow expectations of a community that had little room for anything—or anyone—unusual. Isaac was a butcher by trade, his large hands adept at the work that others found too gruesome. The blood, the smell of raw meat, the weight of the cleaver in his hand—none of it bothered him. In fact, he found a kind of peace in the methodical nature of the job. It was one of the few things that didn’t judge him, didn’t look at him with fear or disgust. The townsfolk, on the other hand, saw him as someone to be afeared, a man to be avoided and whispered about. They didn’t understand him, and he had long since given up trying to make them. He had been cutting through a grunter all morning; its carcass expertly quartered, each cut precise and clean. Although, this obviously contradicted the state he found himself in. Now, those same hands were stained dark red, the blood seeping into the lines of his skin, collecting under his nails. Without much thought, he wiped his hands on his trousers, leaving smears of blood across the already stained fabric. It didn’t matter much to him anyways.