This is how they punish murderers now.

The relaxed rapping on the door rang throughout. “Body tax.” The cheery voice came from the other side.

I grimaced. It was time.

I hadn’t even bothered to wipe the blood off the knife from the last visit. What was the point, anyway? It was only going to get dirty again.

“Just a sec.”

Blood started to spill onto my fingers as soon as I cut in. I thought that it would have dried out by now, but the all-too familiar metallic wetness slipped along my shaking hand once again.

As I carved out a piece, the knocking increased.

“Sir?” He sounded like he gave a shit.

“Just give me a sec, would ya?” I spat back.

I heard a sigh from the other side of the door. “…There is no need to be like that.” Came the reply.

I almost had it, anyway. Fibers of muscles and veins split between the skin, shaving off the bone, bringing forth the flesh. It felt alive in my hand, more than a fold of stomach fat, in its own sense.

I opened the door with my free hand. On the other side, there he was. Black suit. Red tie. Wearing a cheeky grin on his face.

He extended a gloved hand outwards, his neatly manicured nails pushing through the latex, making an uncomfortable creasing noise.

“Body tax.”

I slung it onto his hand and he held it up, inspecting it, feeling the weight and size, if it was satisfactory.

With the same grin, he threw it into the bag.

“May this cleanse you, and may this heal us.” Like a catchy corporate jingle.

As he walked away, I turned to her.

She was more bone than anything, now. And there wasn’t even much of that left. My guess was 3 months if I managed to be careful.

And after that, it would come out of me.

This is how they punish murderers. I was not clean, and they were hurt.