The Rat King

4

It is all nothing but a swift clatter and clang of pots and knives, a blur of silvers and bronzes with the occasional white sleeve swishing into view.

"Another pack of flour over here!" one barks.

"We need sesame!" another cries.

"Towels!"

"Cutting board!"

"Potatoes!"

"Basil!"

"Salmon!"

"Knife!"

"Ginger!"

"Parsley!"

"Rosemary!"

"Move!" one voice snaps and jostles her aside, the slow lap of water turning over the pot's rim and splattering onto her arm. There is a burning sensation there, one that causes her hand to seize her wrist, to pull it closer.

"Brusceli, you idiot!" There is a loud whoosh of air followed by the concrete sound of contact.

"Aw, what? I didn't do nothing, Cook—"

"You spilled it on her."

The room goes silent, all the rhythmic chops and rickety lops vanishing in the wake of realization.

"Oh, ah, well, I didn't know, he can't—" Brusceli falters.

"He'll peel his skin off," someone whispers, "With his bare hands. That's what he does, I heard."

"Nah, he'll gorge his left eye out."

"What do you know about it? He'll chop his hand off!"

"Shut up," Cook interjects, and the room quiets. "I won't be losing any valuable hands, no matter how clumsy."

The ones that seize her wrist are rough and plump; they yank her arm out so that the deep pool of darker blue on the sleeve faces up, toward the ceiling. There is no gentleness in the grip: it is firm and harsh in the touch—as if it thinks that she will run away. There was another time when she was gripped like this, another time... And suddenly those plump fingers are long and cracked, the nails jagged and broken, digging in deep to her skin with brute strength, holding tight not just to prevent escape, but for the sheer pleasure of the pain it causes her. She thrashes and writhes under the grip, jerking away from those hands, uncaring as to whether she keeps the arm or not—

"Bloody hell!"

"What did you do?"

Another hand creeps toward the sleeve, something flurries up in her chest, a mute shock or something... Something terrible...

The other fingers close around the secured end of the cloth—

No!

They yank it up.

"Christ."

The scuffling stops and trembling legs give out beneath her.

"My God, Brusceli, did you do that?"

"Don't be stupid," Cook snaps. "Boiling oil doesn't do that."

She knows what they speak of. She knows the dark, terrible thing that they have revealed. She keeps her eyes pinned on the floor.

"Get a towel. Hays, damn it, pay attention to me! Get a towel." There is the quick patter of feet that at one point falters and something clangs together. The sound echoes in the room, vibrating off the tight anticipation. A heap of pastel pink, smudged and lined with various scorches and clumps of stains, falls into the outstretched hand which whirls the thing around its fingers before applying it to her arm. She does not look. The hands are not gentle: they drag that pile across the skin as if to peel off the horrors embedded within it.