Page 94 of The Knucklebone Brothers

Maverick was already at the door, his hand on the frame, his eyes wild. He looked at me, then at Blythe, then at me again. "Blythe, she's not doin' too good," he snarled, his voice a raw, ragged thing. "We need to go now! We'll get Momma later!"

I tried to focus on them, but the edges of my vision were startin' to fade, the colors bleedin' into a monochrome wash. The world was gettin' smaller, the walls closin' in around me. I felt like I was fallin' asleep, my body was heavy, my mind a dark, quiet place where the screams had finally stopped.

The boys rushed out of the shack, their boots crunchin' on the dirt and leaves, the fog rollin' in around them. I saw them for a split second, a blur of motion, a flash of white and gray, and then the darkness swallowed me whole.

I woke up to the feelin’ of a needle pullin' through my skin. It sounded like a spider web catchin' on a twig, but wetter. Much wetter.

I tried to lift my head, but my neck felt like it was made of lead. The world spun in a blur. I was lyin' on a rough cot, it was scratchin' against my cheek. Blythe was bent over me. His face was a mask of blood. Not just a little bit. His whole chin, his forehead, his fingers were slick with the red stuff.

He was sewin' me up. I could feel the pull of the thread, the needle pushin' through the raw, ragged flesh of my throat. It hurt like fire, but I couldn't move. I couldn't scream. I was too weak.

Maverick stood over him, holdin' a lantern high. He looked like a demon, all sharp teeth and cold eyes. He was holdin' the thread, cuttin' it with a pair of rusty scissors.

"Don't talk," Blythe said. His voice was low, rough rumble. He didn't even look up from his work. "You'll rip it."

"Good girl," Maverick said. His voice was a low, comforting purr. He looked down at me, his eyes dartin' over my face, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths.

I tried to speak. I tried to tell him that I was okay, that I was fine, that I was just tired, but no sound would come out.

"You'll tear it," Blythe said, his voice low. Then the darkness came back.

I woke up like I was drownin', gaspin' for air that wasn't there. The water was warm, thick, and tasted like copper. It took a minute for my brain to kick in, to drag me up from the bottom of the deep end.

I was lyin' on somethin' soft. The sheets were warm and heavy against my skin. The room was quiet, a suffocatin' silence that pressed against my ears. But the silence wasn't peaceful. It was watchin'.

My throat felt like I’d swallowed a handful of broken glass. It throbbed with a dull, deep ache, a reminder that I was still alive, still breathin'.

I didn't know where I was. The last thing I remembered was the darkness of the shed, the sound of the hammer, the red sprayin' everywhere. I pushed myself up, my body still weak, and looked around. The room was old, a dark, shadowy box of memories. The walls were painted a faded, bruised purple, the wood warped and groanin' under the weight of time. There was a big, heavy bed with a carved headboard that looked like it was made of bones. The furniture was dark, heavy, and smelled of mothballs and dust.

I looked at the nightstand. There was a Bible there, its cover worn and cracked, its pages yellowed and brittle. I reached out, my fingers brushin' against the leather, and saw a name written in a shaky, jagged script on the inside cover. Hester Knucklebone.

I got out of bed, my legs like jelly, and walked to the mirror. It was an old thing, a heavy, ornate mirror with a gold frame that was chipped and tarnished. The glass was dark, like it was holdin' back a thousand secrets.

My reflection was a stranger, a pale wraith with wide, haunted eyes. The air in the room was thick with the scent of dried roses and stale cigarette smoke, a sweet perfume. I was clean, the blood washed from my skin, my hair brushed and soft. They'd put me in a long, airy black dress, the thin cotton floatin' around my legs.

But my throat... my throat was a grotesque canvas. A thick, jagged line of raw, red flesh, a brutal, angry thing that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. It was a roadmap of violence, a testament to the rage. It was my monster's mark, a brand that said I was one of them, a thing of blood and bone and fury.

I opened my mouth to yell, a sound that was meant to tear the world apart, a sound that was meant to shake the very foundations of this house, this holler, this life. But nothin' came out. Just a shredded, pathetic rasp, a sound like a dying animal, a sound that was more pathetic than anythin' I had ever heard.

"That's not a good idea."

I jumped, my eyes dartin' around the room. Blythe was there, sittin' in a chair I hadn't noticed, his body a long, lean shadow in the corner. He was watchin' me, his eyes a dark, unreadable thing.

I reached up, my fingers tremblin', and touched the stitches, the rough, raised line of thread a foreign, invasive thing against my skin. Blythe moved, his hand a gentle, firm touch as he moved my hand away, his fingers a warm, steady weight against my own. "Leave it alone," he said, his voice rumbled low.

The door creaked open, and Maverick stood there in the doorway. He looked at me, his eyes a wild, desperate thing. "You look like hell, pretty thing," he said, his voice a low tease.

I gave him a murderous look, my eyes a cold, hard thing.

He smiled. "There she is."

The air in the room grew thick, heavy with the weight of unspoken words. Maverick pushed off the doorframe, his movements slowed. He crossed the room, his boots silent on the old floorboards, and stopped in front of me.

"Momma's waitin' on the porch for you," he said, his voice a low, hypnotic sigh.

I stared at Maverick, his face a mask of cool indifference, and the words hit me like a bucket of ice water. Momma. On the porch. The air in my lungs froze solid. My brain scrambled, a chicken with its head cut off tryin' to find a new way to think. I swung that hammer. I felt the bone crunch. I watched her face cave in. I saw the blood spray like a red confetti cannon. I saw her fall.

Was that a dream? Did I dream the whole thing? Did I hallucinate the whole slaughterhouse scene? Maybe it was all a misunderstanding. Did I kill a raccoon? Was it a ghost? Maybe Momma was already dead and I was just talkin' to a corpse. My mouth opened, but my throat was a jagged ruin, a dry, scratchy thing that wouldn't let sound out. I couldn't ask the questions. I couldn't say, Wait, did I actually kill her or was she just playin' possum?