This was me at 16

Part 1

My body decorates itself with goose bumps as I walk towards the exceptionally large freezer. The door is left open. The occupants inside carry large pieces of meat past me. One accidentally drops to the ground causing a splatter of blood to run across my apron. The pattern is so precise , not brutal at all. It drenches the first thin layer of fabric. I take a moment to look down at the artsy accident. I walk further as I wonder how I'm going to get the stain out. The workers around me are all twice my age or older. They make sure that I am aware of this fact. I would have left if I could. The butchery is no place for a sixteen year old. I am taking the salary of a much deserved twenty or thirty something year old who would carry out my tasks with much more perfection than my youthful excuse of work. They all think this. I know they do but I need this job for far more than just the money. I take my final steps and enter the copper smelling freezer. My eyes scan quickly past the cut up animal and bloody puddles that slowly drip into bigger ones. I look until I see her. Michelle. My manager. She never liked me much but this time not because of my age , rather how naïve I am. Criminally innocent and pure. I pay no attention to this fact . She can have any opinion of me that she chooses. I just want my pay check. She always puts up a fight before giving it to me. She silently acknowledges my presence with a quick glare into my eyes. She says nothing and carries on with what she is doing.

"My shift is over'' , I hesitantly say. She doesn't look up. ''Is this information supposed to be important to me?'', she shoots back. Her violent remarks do nothing to me. ''I came to get my pay check before I leave.'' She takes a minute to stall before taking out a folded envelope from her back pocket. She puts it on a stool next to her and walks out. I pick it up and count the money. The paper in between my fingertips are familiar but I can never get enough of it. I scathe myself every Saturday for this wrinkled envelope. I do not ponder long on this thought. I have to leave quickly. I do not want to keep my father waiting outside for too long.

I throw my backpack over both shoulders and march outside. My feet are withered and my hands still sting from small lesions due to incorrectly handling my knives. I walk up to my father's car. I get in, not daring to make eye contact. He says nothing. I fold my hands trying to hide the cuts I was rewarded for my carelessness.