When we were eight, Dad cut me open from throat to stomach.
In a forest in the wilds of British Columbia sat his workshop, dusty and reeking of blood. He had skins hanging to dry and they brushed our foreheads as we crept through them. I shivered, even then, while Aggie grinned devilishly ahead of me, bolder than me by far. After summers spent wishing to know what happened in this shed I was suddenly desperate to be gone from it.
He’d caught a rabbit and though he’d let us stalk the woods with him he’d never shown us the act of killing.
Aggie was eager, and in her haste she kicked a brine barrel, her foot making a deep echoing thud, one I felt on my foot, too. Dad looked up and sighed. ‘You really want to see?’
Aggie nodded. ‘Are you prepared for it?’
I could see the furry rabbit and all the blades. It wasn’t moving; dead already.
‘Come on over then.’