Disclaimer: I just love this little Verse that Mr. Whedon and friends created and own. I am so happy I can sneak in and visit. Translations are at the end.

The Butcher (4 of 4)

The tap on the door sounded like gunfire. He was shooting the Butcher over and over. With each shot, the image of Miguel’s belly opening up under the vicious blade happened again and again, interspersed with images from long ago. Images of soldiers slaughtered like cattle and of old men, women and children mutilated and murdered for no other reason than the pleasure of it. The knocking on the door got louder but the gunfire in his head blocked out everything else.

The door opened silently and the Preacher stepped in, a pile of clothes on one arm and boots clutched by fingertips. The Captain was still lying the in the bathtub, up to his chin in water. The light was low, but Book could see Mal’s right hand gripped the side of the tub so tightly that the knuckles were white under the tan acquired in the last two days. The left was over his eyes and he seemed to trembling. It was several seconds before Book realized the man was not asleep. He was in some other place.

Book tried to back quietly through the door again. He realized was invading the privacy of a very private man. But, before he could step outside, Mal dropped his left hand to his chest and tilted his head back to glance at the Preacher.

“Are those for me?”

“Yes, I came to bring these and tell you dinner will be ready in a few minutes. I’m sorry I disturbed you.” Book set the clothes and boots down again and stepped toward the doorway.

The Captain sat up and twisted to look up at him again. “I’m obliged you did, and for fetchin’ these.”

“Do want Simon to look at your shoulder?”

Mal touched the abrasion made by the bullet. It was oozing a little blood and clear fluid. “Yeah, I suppose it’d be a good idea. I don’t have so many shirts that I can afford to ruin another. And, it wouldn’t be good manners to bleed at the dinner table. Tha