Page 28 of The Knucklebone Brothers

"We were just gonna look," Blythe added, his eyes distant, like he was lost in the memory. "But then... Maverick got this idea."

"He said we had to see if it was still... warm," Maverick continued, a strange, detached look in his eyes. "It was a stupid, kid thing. A dare. We didn't mean nothin' by it. We just... touched her. A little."

"It was cold," Blythe said, his voice barely a whisper. "And stiff. It was... awful."

"We never did it again," Maverick said, his voice firm, finally looking at me. "It was a one-time thing. A stupid, fucked-up thing we did when we were kids. We're not... like that."

I just stared at them, my mind reeling. I found monsters. But they weren't the simple, bloodthirsty beasts I'd imagined. They were something else. Something more complicated. Something more... human. And that was fucking with me.

I watched them finish cleaning up, their movements methodical and quiet. The air in the trailer was thick with the smell of blood and cheap soap, a strange, metallic tang that clung to the back of my throat. I stood up, the chain rattling against my leg, and walked over to the bed. I sat down, the mattress dipping under my weight, and stared at the floor.

I thought about death. I thought about it a lot, actually. I wasn't afraid of it, not by a long shot. I'd seen too much of life to be scared of the alternative. But I didn't know what was waiting on the other side for me. Was it nothing? Was it something? Was it a big, empty void, or was it a place where all the ghosts I'd ever known were waiting for me? I didn't know. And that was the part that scared me. The not knowing.

And then there was them. Maverick and Blythe. The Knucklebones. The cannibals. The necrophiliacs. The rumors were all true. Every last one of them. And if they were true, then what did that mean for me? Were they going to kill me? Eat me? Or was I something else? Something more?

I thought about my life, about all the times I'd come close to death. About all the times I'd stared it in the face and told it to fuck off. I thought about my mom, her body wasted away by cancer, her eyes hollow and empty. I thought about him, her husband, my stepfather. The drunk. The abuser. The man who beat her, who beat me, who locked us in the house so we couldn't tell anyone.

I remembered the day I decided to kill him. It was a Tuesday. He'd come home from the bar, stinking of cheap whiskey and stale cigarettes. He'd been mad about something, something stupid, and he'd taken it out on my mom. He'd slapped her, hard, across the face, and she'd fallen, her head hitting the edge of the table with a sickening, wet thud. She didn't get up.

I'd watched him, my heart pounding in my chest, a cold, hard rage building inside me. He'd stumbled over to her, his face a mask of drunken concern. "Wake up, you bitch," he'd slurred, shaking her limp body. "Wake up."

I'd gone into the kitchen, my hands shaking, and I'd grabbed the bottle of rat poison from under the sink. I'd poured it into his bottle of whiskey, my hands steady, my mind clear. I'd shaken it up, the poison mixing with the amber liquid, and I'd put it back on the counter.

He'd found it a few hours later, his thirst finally getting the better of him. He'd taken a long, deep swallow, his eyes closing in bliss. And then he'd started to cough. A deep, rattling cough that shook his whole body. He'd looked at me, his eyes wide with confusion, and I held up the empty bottle of poison. His eyes widened with realization, and then he'd fallen, his body convulsing on the floor.

I stood over him and watched him die, my face void of any emotion. At first, there was nothing. But then, as his body started to seize, his back arching off the floor, his eyes rolling back in his head, a small, slow smile spread across my face. A thin line of drool mixed with blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, and his skin started to turn a sickly, greyish-blue. He was choking, his body writhing in agony, and I felt a surge of pure, unadulterated joy. I'd finally stopped him. I'd finally saved my mom. And then I'd called the police, my voice calm and steady. "My stepfather had a heart attack," I'd said. "I think he's dead."

They'd believed me. Of course they had. I was just a scared little girl, traumatized by the sudden death of her stepfather. I got into more trouble over the years. I ended up in juvi, for setting fire to the gym mats. Then the hospital, with its white walls and pills that made my head feel like it was full of cotton. They'd tried to "fix" me, to "help" me, but they couldn't. I was broken.

When my mom's cancer came back, they let me out. Said I was "stable" enough to be a caregiver. As if. I went back to that house, to the smell of sickness and death, and I took care of her. I held her hand while she wasted away, while the chemo made her sick and the pain made her scream. And when she was gone, I went off the rails. Got into trouble, ended up in jail for a bit. Then the hospital again. Being locked up seems like the normal for me. A cage is a cage, whether it has bars or it’s being medicated.

I looked up, my eyes meeting Maverick's. He was watching me, his expression unreadable. He'd stopped drying his hands, the rag forgotten in his grip. He was just staring, his head tilted to the side. I wondered what he'd see if he looked inside my head. If he saw the things I'd done, the things I was capable of. Would he be scared? Or would he be impressed? I wasn't sure which answer I wanted more.

I gave him a dirty look, a sneer twisting my lips before I could stop it. I wasn't some damn museum exhibit for him to gawk at. I laid down on the bed, turning my back to them, and pulled the blanket up to my chin. I closed my eyes, but I wasn't tired. I was just done. Done with them, done with their staring, done with this whole fucked-up situation.

I listened to them move around the small trailer, the sound of their footsteps a familiar, rhythmic beat. I heard the clink of a bottle, the low murmur of their voices. I didn't try to make out the words. It didn't matter. I was in my own world now, a world of memories and secrets, of poison and revenge.

Chapter 11

Sometime passed. I didn't know how long. The light in the trailer shifted, the shadows growing long and deep. I listened to them move around, their voices a low, constant hum.

"Man, I'm sweatin' like a whore in church," Maverick said, his voice closer now. "I need to wash my ass before I do anything else."

"Go on then," Blythe grunted. "Don't want you stinkin' up the place. I'm gonna use the other shower."

I heard the bathroom door shut, the sound of the shower starting up. A few minutes later, I heard the trailer door groan open and then slam shut. Blythe. He was gone. I was alone.

I sat up slowly, my muscles stiff and sore. I looked around the small trailer, my eyes scanning every surface, every corner. I was done with the memories. I was done with the past. It was time to focus on the future. And the future started with escape.

My eyes landed on the workbench in the corner of the room. It was a mess of tools and scraps of metal, but something glinted in the dim light. It was a small, bent piece of wire, the kind you'd find in a junkyard or a hardware store. It must have been left over from one of their projects. Or maybe it was a test. A trap.

I didn't know. And I didn't care. It was there. And it was my only chance.

I slid off the bed, my movements slow, the chain a familiar, heavy weight around my waist. I crept over to the workbench in the corner of the room, my eyes scanning the mess of tools and scraps of metal. There, half-hidden under a greasy rag, was a small, bent piece of wire. It was perfect.

I picked it up, the metal pointed under my fingertips. I knew what to do. I'd learned how to pick a lock years ago, a skill I'd honed out of pure, gut-wrenching necessity. I remembered it like it was yesterday. Mom was sick, real sick, one of the few times. She couldn't work. And that drunk son of a bitch she was married to, he took what little money we had and poured it down his throat or up his nose. The fridge was empty. The cupboards were bare. I was twelve, and I was starving.

So I started breaking into houses. I'd sneak in, quiet as a mouse, and I'd take food. Canned goods, boxes of pasta, anything I could carry. But some of those doors had deadbolts, or the windows were latched. I taught myself. I found a paperclip in a desk drawer once, bent it straight, and spent a whole afternoon in an empty garage, practicing on an old padlock I found. My fingers bled, but I learned. I learned the feel of the tumblers, the sweet little click when they lined up just right. It was the difference between eating and not eating. It was the difference between living and just... waiting to die.