The November wind was brisk as the last breaths of summer died within it. It was not even five o'clock in the evening, and yet the sun had begun to lower its head, casting a mellow orange glow over the city. It was a densely packed city, with one half owed to the tall business towers that stretched past the retreating sun, and the mansions on the rolling elevated hills behind. This was the Northside, of million- or billion-dollar businesses and the rich people to which they belonged. The other half, the Southside, was the underwhelming shorter sibling of the Northside with normal houses and stores ranging from middle to lower class. Global import goods, trinket shops, cheaper services and the intense majority of the homeless population belongs to this side. From the height of the buildings to the tax bracket and even to the social behaviour, Carnelian City was cut cleanly down the middle.
And he had a foot on either side.
On the Northside was the best hospital in the city, St. Bernadette Hospital, where his sister Eve stays. To afford this, the majority of his income comes from his office job in the business district, RiseX Solutions. The Southside, however, is where he lives in one of the cheapest apartments in the city. He affords his own general living circumstances with the part-time work at Barry's Fish Shop. These latter two buildings were in the slums, even by Southside standards.
Still, since entering the city off the train's final destination that fateful day, he had found his place within Carnelian and its halves.
A long public bus ride and short walk later, he reaches the fish shop a minute before his shift began.
'Nice timing.'
The old the shop before him is made of a dirty beige stone and splintering wood, with hints of green here and there like moss, or seaweed, or mold. "Old Barry's Fish Shop" is painted on the bright turquoise sign beside the matching turquoise door, but weathering has chipped the paint and cracked the edges of the wooden board, giving it a less-than-cheerful feel. All sorts of antique fishing lines and wind chimes hang drown from the sign and move awkwardly in the chilly wind. If the appearance wasn't indication enough that this shop sells fish, the gut-wrenching stench of fish leaking through the cracks will seal the deal.
After a while of working inside the shop, yes, the intensity of the smell diminishes. However, after breathing in lovely clean Northside air all day, being suddenly hit with this invisible abomination still makes his stomach churn.
Holding back a gag, he grips the cold handle of the front door and opens it, stepping inside.
A little chime sounds above the door as he enters. If he were to look up, he'd see it's in the shape of a fish. It's ugly, but Barry likes it. Just like the rest of this fish shop.
Inside, the shop can be divided into four sections. Upon entering, to the right, you'll find a long linear table and chilled glass display of fresh fish and seafood on ice, with a hunk-of-metal cash register and fifty-year-old radio at the end. This is the most well organized spot in the entire store. To the left, one would expect to find neat rows with older fish - frozen and canned - and sorted fishing gear. Instead, since only the owner Barry works here, plus himself as part-time help, the place is a cluttered mess. Goods are jumbled together in piles and on top of freezers, fishing gear hangs loosely from the ceiling, and selling products are mixed in with crates of untouched, freshly imported fish from the port just outside the city. Barry's Fish Shop looked like a fisherman's vomit.
The back of the shop hid behind a false wall, with the kitchen to the right, and Barry's bedroom to the left. The old man couldn't afford to pay for two pieces of land, so he had combined both into one long ago. Now that was a man who's been desensitized to the smell of fish. In fact, the stench of fish had enough time to seep into every pore in the man's body, to the point where you could smell him before he was before you.
He scrunched his still-adjusting nose.
The very foul-smelling man himself burst open the kitchen door and wobbled over. Barry was a short man, barely reaching five feet, dressed in beige cargo pants that were all the rage with fishermen thirty years ago, and a blue button-up t-shirt with utility pockets full of plastic fish bait, specialized scissors and knives. He has grey and white salt-and-pepper hair, cut wildly and close to his scalp. His face sags from well over seventy years of grimacing, proven by the one on his face right now.
"Ty, there 'yer! Late, boy!"
Ty's voice was flat.
"I'm a minute early."
The old man waved his wrinkly tanned and freckled hand, as if shooing the young man like a fly.
"Time is different to old men, ye hear. I almost had myself a heart attack waiting for 'er."
Barry liked to bicker about his health, which happened to be absolutely fine. Besides his incredible lack of height, the crabby old man was in annoyingly good condition.
"Come boy, descale the fish! I'll work cash."
Barry commands as he plops down behind the cash and turns on the radio.
"Working the cash" was really just Barry relaxing behind the counter and listening to the radio. Since they had few customers in a day, it was the easy job.
Why did he always have the hard ones?
He sighs inwardly and drags his feet over to the kitchen. Stationing himself behind the kitchen counter, he puts a pair of surgical gloves on and eyes the trout before him on the cutting board. Over the vibrant green cutting board lathered with slime, it was a rather large trout this time. It was probably the size of three or four of his hands in a row.
At eye level is a window in the false wall, directly looking onto old Barry with his feet up and the radio on. Opened, he can hear Barry randomly comment something or other from what he hears on the news. It's always followed by a grimace, or a grunt, or a "tsk".
"Oi, Ty."
Barry calls from behind without taking his sour eyes off the radio.
Ty begins skillfully descaling the exposed side of the trout.
"Yeah?"
"'Ye hear about that serial killer lose on the Northside, killing them rich folks?"
"A serial killer?"
"Yeah, just killed the big man of Wallace Corp. You know, that big tractor company?"
"Oh, yeah."
He flips the trout over and begins descaling the other side.
"Yeah, you got a job on that side, yeah?"
"Mmhm."
"Yer'd do good to watch out. Though an empty-pocketed sucker like you's probably safe. I bet them killer's one of us, murdering all those no-good big bellies takin' our money. You know, teaching them Northsiders a lesson."
He sharply plunges the knife deep into the descaled trout, beginning to cut it into pieces.
"Mmhm."
"Pretty gruesome murders I hear though. Lots of strawberry jam. Blood all over the offices, homes, alleyways."
He makes another cut into the trout, and then stops. His shaking hands slip off the knife stuck deep in the trout's body. Except it doesn't look like a trout. It looks like an eight-month-old baby.
An intense wave of nausea surges within him, and he dashes to the bathroom beside Barry's bedroom.
From his seat, Barry's still lounging with his back to the kitchen, eyes on the radio.
"Weird boy."
Is all he grunts.