By Wyatt Sarrazin

The handle is cold to the touch, and I know that the air inside is cold and stiff, like the hanging meats therein. There is no sign of life, only death. The muscular flesh has been skinned of its outer furry shell; it hangs by the hooks that crudely protrude the skin. The blood has been frozen as it makes its way to the floor. The ground is cleanly paved cement, with a glossy lacquer. A few drops of blood have made it from the carcasses to the cement, but they seem stuck where they land. The metal that lines the cold box has been frosted over, but its shiny veneer is still visible. The rest of the container is empty. Empty of voice, of thought, of even memories, for this is the first of many. The secluded box has but one purpose, to store this frozen meat. Then new light comes from the opening of the large metal door. The meat is removed by the chains that hold it. I take the beef, lifting it to the tables for cutting. The meat is cut and configured into its different forms. The steaks are the funniest to cut but jerky slices are also fun to do. The meats are distributed to their new owners. The metal container has a new purpose, to feed people with the meat that it stores. It is empty now, but not for long.