Page 51 of The Knucklebone Brothers

He was laid out like a pig at a feast, his body a canvas of horror. His arms and legs were already gone, severed at the joints and tossed into a nearby bucket, which was overflowing with a dark, viscous liquid. Maverick had just made a cut, and the saw was still sinking into the sheriff's chest with a wet, crunching sound, sending a fresh spray of blood across the wall. The floor was packed dirt, stained dark and wet, with scattered clumps of hay now soaked and matted with blood and chunks of flesh. There were heavy iron hooks hanging from the ceiling rafters, and one of them, dripping a slow, steady pattern of blood onto the floor below, held Duffy's severed head, his eyes staring blankly at the scene below.

Rory just stood there, her mouth agape, her eyes wide with a horror so pure it was almost beautiful. She was in shock, her body rigid, her mind struggling to process the absolute carnage in front of her. I watched her, a smirk playing on my lips. This was it. This was the moment she truly understood what it meant to be a part of our family.

Chapter 18

The world went silent. The screaming music, the thumping of my own heart, everything just faded into a dull, distant hum. I stood there, a statue in the doorway, my mind refusing to process the scene in front of me. It was too much. The blood, the smell, the sheer violence of it all. It was a nightmare made real. I watched Maverick in the pig mask, his movements rhythmic and practiced as he tore apart the body on the workbench. I didn't know who’s corpse it was, just a mass of flesh and bone, a canvas for his grotesque hobby.

My eyes drifted upwards, drawn by a slow, rhythmic drip, drip, drip. And then I saw it. A head, hanging from a hook like a side of beef. The face was swollen, one eye bulging and bloodshot, the other half-closed and bruised. But I knew that face. I knew that stupid smug face and the way his mouth was set in a permanent frown. It was Sheriff Duffy.

Stupid bastard, I thought, a strange, detached sense of irony cutting through the horror. He really came here and started shit?

I looked back at Maverick. He must have felt my gaze, because he stopped his work and slowly reached up, pulling the pig mask off. His face was flushed, his eyes bright with a wild, manic energy. He smiled at me, a wide, genuine smile that was more terrifying than the mask had been. Then he looked over at Blythe, who was leaning against the wall, watching us, and winked. He put his mask down on a nearby stool and picked up his saw again, resuming his work with a renewed spirit. He even started to do a little dance, a shuffling, two-step to the chaotic music, his hips swaying in time with the wet, crunching sound of the saw cutting through bone. He was enjoying himself. He was in his element. And I was standing right in the middle of it.

I looked back at the severed head, a detached part of my brain noting the way the blood dripped from its ear, when a hand clamped down on my arm. It was Blythe. His grip was demanding, pulling me out of my trance and deeper into the barn, closer to Maverick's workbench. The smell of blood and raw meat was overwhelming, and I had to fight the urge to gag.

"You're going to help," he said, his voice flat, like he was asking me to pass the salt.

"The fuck I am!" I snapped, trying to pull my arm away. He didn't let go. "I'm not a murderer like ya’ll."

Blythe let out a low, humorless laugh. "He's already dead, Rory," he said, his eyes fixed on mine. "You're just... helping dispose of him."

"So an accessory?!" I shot back, my voice rising in panic. "You want to make me an accessory to murder?!"

The boys exchanged a look, a silent, knowing glance that sent a chill down my spine. Maverick stopped his work and walked over to an old radio, turning the music down until it was just a low, aggressive thrum. Blythe stepped in front of me, blocking my view of the door, his presence a wall I couldn't get past.

"This isn't your first time, is it, Rory?" he asked, his voice soft, almost gentle.

My heart stopped. "I... I have no idea what the fuck you're even talking about," I stammered, trying to sound surprised, but my voice was shaky. What the hell do they know?! my mind screamed. There's no way they know I killed my step-dad. No one knows but me and him.

"Don't lie to us," Maverick said, his voice a low growl from behind me. "We know about your step-daddy. We know you killed him."

I tried to deny it, to shake my head, to say something, anything, but the words wouldn't come. My mind was racing, my thoughts a jumbled mess of fear and confusion.

"It's okay, Rory," Blythe said, his voice still soft. "It was the right thing to do. You were protecting yourself and your mom. We would've done the same."

The fight didn't go out of me. It just changed. It sharpened with a hard point of steel in my gut. I stood my ground, my chin lifting as I met his gaze. "What makes you think that anyhow?" I asked, my voice low and steady, not a whisper.

Blythe's grip on my arm loosened, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. "We've been watching you, Rory," he said, his voice soft, but firm. "For a long time. We saw the way he looked at you, the way he touched you. We saw the bruises you tried to hide. We saw the fear in your eyes."

Maverick chimed in, his voice low. "And we saw the fire. We saw the way you watched the church burn, the way you didn't flinch. We saw the relief on your face."

My head snapped up, but not in shock. It was in challenge. They were there. They saw everything. A wave of something hot and fierce washed over me, but it wasn't shame. It was pride. "I... I did," I said, my voice clear and strong, the words tasting like victory on my tongue. "I killed him. And I'd do it again."

A slow, satisfied smile spread across my face. "I'd do it again, but slower. I'd make him suffer. I'd make him feel every bit of the pain he put my mom through, every bit of the fear he put in me. I'd watch him choke and beg, and I'd smile, just like I did before. I know that makes me a horrible person."

Blythe's expression softened, a look of understanding dawning in his eyes. "No, you're not a horrible person," he said, his voice gentle. "You're a survivor."

Maverick nodded in agreement, a wide, approving grin on his face. "You're one of us."

They let that sink in, the weight of their words pressing down on me. Then Blythe continued, his voice turning cold. "And when you went to Duffy here to tell him about it... what did he do? Nothing. Duffy told your step-daddy to keep you quiet, and he beat you for it, didn't he?"

I just nodded, my throat too tight to speak. I remembered that day, the way Duffy had looked at me, the smirk on his face as he told my step-daddy to "handle his child." I remembered the pain, the way I'd curled up in a ball and prayed for it to be over. They were right. Duffy was just as bad as my step-daddy. Worse, even. He was supposed to protect me, and he didn't.

Maverick and Blythe both stood in front of me, their bodies blocking out the dim light of the barn. "Do you think we randomly chose you?" Blythe asked, his voice soft but intense. "Do you think we just grabbed any girl off the street?"

"We've known about you for a long time, Aurora," Maverick added, his voice low and soft. "Since we were kids. We saw the fire in you, the darkness. We knew you were one of us. We've been waiting for you."

My heart was pounding in my chest, a frantic, wild rhythm. They had been watching me. They had been waiting for me. It was a terrifying thought, but it was also... meaningful, in a fucked up way.