Content Warning:>!graphic self harm!<
“Minato!” – My vision reels back to me from the depths of my mind. – “Get your ass back to work kid, you’re nearly ten minutes over!”
I straighten my knee and push off the rough cement wall enough to regain my balance, trying to tune out the old bastard. I take one last pull of my cigarette and smoke it down to the butt before flicking the nub away.
Its almost four o’clock now. Lunch service is coming to a close, thank God. I step inside and carelessly push away the long plastic sheet that divides the cooking stations from my station. I stand on the floor mat, in the same place I always do, under the harsh fluorescent tube lights. They buzz faintly. Its cold here and it smells like fish. I hate the smell of fish. Actually, I hate the taste too. And the feeling… the slimy texture of the scales, I mean.
Yet here I stand. Day after day. The same floor mat. The same tube lights. The same buzzing. The same bitter cold. And the same fish-smell as yesterday and the months before.
There are two buckets that sit on the metal counter of my workstation. The larger one contains fish. I scrub my hands and arms up to my elbows in the sink. The water is already hot, but I make it hotter. My skin becomes swollen and flush red. The nerves in my fingertips throb until it feels fuzzy. Like static radiating through my bloodstream.
Then I take a fish from the bucket and lay it square on the table.
First, I must inspect the fish. If the eyes are clouded and grey, then the fish has started to rot. I have to run my fingers across its scales and press my thumb into the area with the most muscle. If the indentation springs back into shape, the meat is likely still fresh. Of course, there is the smell, too. If it smells too strong, it’s no good.
Except it always smells ‘too strong’. It always fucking stinks.
After inspection, I gut. I carefully make an incision starting at the anus and slide my knife up the belly towards the head, ending just below the gills. There is a certain meticulousness required here. If my knife slips too deeply into the fish, I will rupture the intestines. They will open and seep gastric sludge into the meat, spoiling the fish.
It also reeks like hell. Nothing is more nauseating than the stench of an opened stomach. I am especially careful with this step.
After pulling the cold, bloody entrails from the opened cavity, I drop them into the waste bucket. Then I can clean the fish and use my cleaver to sever the head. A sharp pair of scissors make quick work of snipping off the fins.
Next, I use a small metal instrument which vaguely resembles a claw to carefully peel the scales from the carcass.
Lastly, the filet knife. I part the bones from the fish, leaving what could once swim, and eat, and reproduce as nothing more than several evenly sized cubes of meat sitting upon my cutting board.
That is the extent of my job. The rest of the sushi preparation is done by Ichiro. I’ve never liked sushi. And I’ve never liked Ichiro.
It’s not a difficult task anymore. I come into work in the morning and prepare dozens of fish for the lunch service. I take a break outside to enjoy a cigarette. I’m never hungry enough to eat during my break. The smell puts me off. I return and prepare several dozens more fish for the dinner service. At the end of the workday, I wipe my station clean and dispose any remnants of blood, guts, or other viscera in a dumpster behind the restaurant. I walk for about thirty-five minutes before arriving at my one-bedroom flat. And then I try to scrub myself clean.
I turn the shower on, undress myself, and put my clothes in a scented garbage bag with the rest of my laundry. I re-tie a tight knot at the top of the garbage bag. The shower is hot. I take the bar of soap and wrap it in my washcloth. I scrub my skin. My chest, my face, my neck, my arms, my groin, my legs, and as much of my back as I can reach. I flood my scalp with shampoo and rub it in vigorously with my fingers. I wash the soap off my body and rinse my hair. But it doesn’t work. I can still smell it. I can still smell the fucking fish. Its hiding somewhere on my body. Somewhere on my skin. The putrid stench of rotting, bloated, parasite-ridden fish corpse.
In a fit of frustration, I swing the shower handle as hot as it will go. The head of the shower screams and scorching hot water blisters me. Steam fills the shower. I can’t breathe, I can’t see. But I can still smell—still smell it. I claw at my skin, desperately trying to rip the impurities from my flesh. There’s blood. There’s a lot of blood. It doesn’t bother me; I’m used to the sight. I dig my nails into the skin on my stomach, this time harder than before. I lift enough skin off to be able to pull on it. I can’t take the smell any longer. I pull hard. The small flap of skin elongates into a strip, exposing what’s underneath.
And then I smell something. Something new, thank God. Something that’s not fish.