The Boiling of the Bones

27. The Slaughterhouse

Maybe I felt guilty for Soph's death. Maybe it was my way of punishing myself. Or I wanted something menial and tedious to spite my father. Maybe I didn't really care about anything anymore because life had lost all meaning for me. At any rate, I took a job at a beef slaughterhouse in the rendering plant.

After the cattle were slaughtered, we took the bones and put them in a giant vat of water and boiled them for ten hours to extract the marrow and collagen for broth. It was a hot, stinky environment. The work was horribly tedious and filthy dirty. The place reeked of death. I absolutely hated it. It was perfect.

I kept to myself. After work every day I loaded my mountain bike into the back of my white GMC Sierra pickup truck and headed for the mountains. I rode different trails every day. When I was out there in the Rockies, the fresh pine-scented crisp air and beautiful views was refreshing, and the trail riding was invigorating. Almost enough to take my mind off of her.

No matter what I did, or where I went the pain followed. The dull ache of loss and sorrow became my perpetual companion. I thought with time it would fade, but it was not to be. Even two thousand miles away, something reminded me of her daily. I felt like I was living under a dark cloud of depression that followed me around everywhere I went. The summer flew by in a blur.

Fall came and winter set in early in the mountains. Eventually I had to stop riding when a deep layer of snow blanketed the trails. After work I went back to my apartment and didn't know what to do with my spare time. Often, I'd sit on my bed and stare at the wall with a blank expression like I was dead inside. Life held no meaning for me anymore. It became a mundane cycle of meaningless repetition. Wake up. Change. Go to work. Come home. Shower. Change. Kill a few hours. Go to sleep. Then repeat—over and over again.

The Colorado winter was brutally cold. And dark. It stretched on for months. Eventually Spring came. I hoped with the changing seasons my mood would improve. Especially when I got back on my bike in the mountains. But it didn't. I had to force myself to drag my butt out of bed in the morning.

After work I didn't even want to go ride anymore but I was making a conscious effort trying hard to move on. I had to get on with my life.

Then as the weather warmed up more, all I could think of was the rapidly approaching one-year anniversary of Sophia's death. It haunted me. I thought of her constantly. When the day came, I skipped work. I was grief stricken and couldn't get out of bed.

Around noon I got up. I wasn't hungry so I skipped eating. I didn't even feel like biking, so I left my bike in my apartment and got into my truck and drove up into the mountains.

I drove around randomly and pulled over into a dirt parking lot I'd never seen before. It was filled with two dozen cars and trucks. A carved wood sign indicated it was a trailhead for a place called Lover's Leap. I started off at a slow pace. It headed high up toward a spectacular peak. The views were impressive, but not enough to take my mind off her or lift my spirits. I hiked for several hours up the steep and winding trail.

In the late afternoon I reached Lover's Leap. The name seemed appropriate. I was standing at the edge of the cliff. There were still slippery patches of ice in shady spots along the trail. I inched forward until my toes were hanging over. Jagged rock and boulders gave way to a shear drop hundreds of feet. I looked at my watch. Five oh three. It was exactly a year ago that Soph took her life. Guilt and grief washed over me. The pain was unbearable. I pictured her beautiful white lifeless face. It felt like yesterday.

The wind was blowing in my face. I hoped a momentary gust would sweep me off the edge. It would make this easier. I stretched out my arms, tilted my head back and leaned slightly forward.