The corpse, its eyes blank and jaw slack, was scowling at him: in death, its brow was furrowed, one hand clenched in a fist and another clutching at its abdomen.
He paused only briefly at the sight, the dust that was sent in the air from the dead man's collapse settling slowly onto the sandy ground, before he knelt down next to the corpse. His axe, dropped unceremoniously onto the ground, sent up its own smaller cloud of dust.
His first task was simple. He investigated the corpse's "artefacts," as he'd grown used to calling them: objects and possessions that could help some traitor identify the body. Digging through pockets and prying apart still-warm fingers left him holding an ornate metal lighter, a pack of French-made cigarettes, and a smart leather wallet.
He pocketed the cigarettes.
The lighter was convenient. It contained enough fluid to burn off the fingerprints, to torch the contents of the wallet until they were no more than a small pile of ashes, brushed dismissively into the previously-excavated, eight-尺-deep grave. He saved a decent bit of money with that, not having had to use his own. Cleaning up after a wealthy capitalist was also a coveted job.
The disassembling process that followed took him into the twilight hours, lulling him into the robotic, state-serving work of hacking ligaments, crushing joints, and shearing skin from flesh.
He wrenched out the teeth and wrapped them in the now-empty and bloodied clothes, bundling the whole mess into a thick canvas sack. It would be dropped off at the state-funded steel plant later that morning and reduced to no more than a few puffs of smog from the smokestacks.
He lifted one edge of the tarp he'd been working on, and what was left of Lin Songwen, enemy of the people, disappeared over the edge of his grave.
The tarp was stuffed into the sack, a well-rehearsed movement. It, too, could be burned at the plant.
.
.
.
*年: year, in this case, the 1976th year AD.
*尺: a Chinese unit of measurement, around 12.6 inches or 33 cm. Eight 尺 would be 12 feet or 2.64 m.
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His Spleen is Also Red | (vaguely) COUNTRYHUMANS
Historical FictionA story of love, deception, and irreversible damage. Where, ultimately, a woman will lose her brother, a girl will lose her father, and a man will have lost his love. --- rewrite/refurbishing of some drafts I have. This story is ultimately designed...
