We were told to describe a person, a butcher to be specific. Whilst everyone was writing about balding middle-aged men in an apron, handing out pork chops or sweating over a pig carcass in a walk-in freezer, I was going the other way and describing a man called "the butcher".
Just goes to show how against the grain I like to think. I always stretch the definition of the task and it's made me quite popular in my course.
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They called him the butcher, but you wouldn't think it to look at him. He was a thoroughly well-to-do man in his late thirties, dressed smartly and to all was affable and adept. He had a wonderful penchant for the violin and spent his weekends volunteering at the local homeless shelter washing blankets and collecting money in a tin by the railway station. The problem was that he had a character fault, minor though it was, in that whenever the sun went down he just couldn't stop killing. The voices in his head bargained for him to stop saying "now, pete, you know these people don't deserve it, go have a mug of lemon tea and watch that nice movie about the holocaust again" but he would block them out by whistling jingles from television adverts. No, you wouldn't think it to look at him that this selfless civil servant had over a score of dismembered body parts hidden about his home, but after all, don't we all have a few skeletons in our closet?
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