I pull away the rabbit fur, the skin beneath pink and tender. I work my way down its body, careful not to tear. It’s calming, intimate. Maybe this is what my father feels when he’s sharpening his knife.
My father…Heath and I have been sleeping at the cabin on theweekends. Out of his hateful sight. But lately, Dad has been following us here to the Wicked Woods. Our woods. Our only refuge from him. He doesn’t belong here. Amy didn’t belong here, either.
Then I stop. And I decide. I know what I’m going to do. At home. Tonight.
And I promise myself that this time, I won’t stop. I promise myself that if I succeed, I will never tell a soul what I did. That I will be the only one who knows.
I hand the peeled rabbit to Trav, and he calmly hacks the legs off with a cleaver. I want to pull his school collar down and kiss his neck, but Heath is watching.
Later, I lie on the creek bank with Trav, our hands entwined, blood under our fingernails. He asks me to marry him. I say yes.
Luke’s labored breathing pulls me back to the present. The boat rocks gently beneath us as the wind stirs, salty and cold.
“I loved it, Luke.”
“I know.”
He reaches out in his final moments, his hand cold and unsteady. I let him. There’s no urgency now. Just the fading rhythm of his heartbeat, the labored effort of his breathing.
His eyes flicker to my knife. He breathes in, lips moving silently. His voice is faint, almost lost. There’s something he has to say. One final thing that he has to express before it’s too late. I know what it is.
He squeezes my hand, eyes alight.
Luke Newton dies smiling.
The last thing he ever says is “I…know…that…blade.”
THEN
The violence was worse after Mum was gone. There were no more warnings. My house was the ocean. My father, a shark on the hunt.
You’re either the shark or the food.
The day Dad went missing, he was sitting around his homemade forge in the backyard. Heat-treating the black blade of his fishing knife until the flames were almost too bright to look at. He never knew I was there. Watching.
He always napped before night fishing. I crept to his room while he slept, removed his knife from his waders, and sliced long slits, one after another after another. Neat. Imperceptible. Then I crept outside to the forge and held the black blade to the fire until it broke away and only the handle remained.
Then I clipped the handle back in place.
Hours later, my father got dressed in the dark, pulled the waders on, unaware.
I watched him leave, his severed black blade warm in my palm, his words ringing in my ears.
Always take a knife.
Months later, I craft a handle made of kangaroo bone and fuse it to my father’s black blade. The pieces slide into place like they’ve been waiting for each other.
Always take a knife.
I did.
I took his.
Chapter 35
My front yard smells like the daffodils my brother planted to honor our mother. My backyard smells like blood.
Sometimes I smell the flowers.
