Page 93 of The Knucklebone Brothers

Momma tossed her aside, her body limp, a discarded doll, a heap of flesh and bone and blood. She hit the floor with a dull, heavy thud, her limbs tangled, a pool of dark, slick blood around her neck, soakin' into the dirt floor.

Momma stood there, still, the blood flowed down her hand. A monster in the dark, a goddamn queen of the holler, and she didn't even have the decency to look like she cared.

Chapter 35

The world was a blurry, watercolor mess, the edges softened, bleeding into one another like a cheap painting left out in the rain. I was on the ground, the dirt cool against my cheek, and everything hurt. Everything was heavy. My head felt like it was full of cotton, thick and fuzzy, my thoughts moving slowly and sluggish through the fog.

My hands were wet. So wet. I lifted them, my fingers clumsy and slow, and stared at them. They were covered in blood. My blood. It was a dark, slick thing, a warm flow from my throat. I was so confused. I couldn't remember how I got here. I couldn't remember anything after the tea momma gave me. That bitter, herbal taste that had lingered on my tongue. That old bitch must've drugged me. That's what this was. This wasn't real. This was a dream. A bad, fever dream.

Through the haze, I could see Maverick and Blythe. They were standing in front of Momma. Maverick's face was a contortion of fury, his eyes wild, spit flying from his lips as he screamed.

"What the fuck did you do?!" he shouted, the sound a physical thing that vibrated through the floorboards, through my own bones. "WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO?!"

Blythe was a statue of cold fury, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that was somehow more terrifying than Maverick's shouts. "How could you?" he asked, his voice low, a cold, steady beat in the chaos. "How could you do this?"

I tried to speak, to tell them that it wasn't real, that it was just a dream, that Momma had drugged me, but no sound would come out. My throat was a mess of torn flesh and blood, a hot, aching thing that refused to cooperate. I was weak, so weak, my body limp, broken, a discarded doll, a heap of flesh and bone and blood. And I was pissed. I didn't want to die. Not like this. Not in this dirty, blood-soaked shed, at the hands of a woman who was supposed to be my family. I didn't want to be another ghost in the holler, another forgotten girl, another stain on the floor.

Momma laughed. It wasn't a big, boomin' sound. It was a dry, rattlin' thing, like stones skitterin' down a dry well, a sound that was devoid of any warmth, any humanity. It was the sound of a thousand deaths, a thousand betrayals, a thousand sins. It was the sound of the holler itself, a cold, ancient thing that seemed to swallow the light.

She dropped the shard of glass. It hit the dirt floor with a soft thud. And that's when it hit me. Not the pain. Not the fear. A cold, hard clarity. A single, overwhelmin' thought that cut through the fog, a sharp, clear thing that was as real and as brutal as the blood that was still flowin' from my throat.

I'm gonna get the fuck out of here.

I pushed myself forward, my arms tremblin', my body a weak, pathetic thing. I looked around the killin' shed, my eyes dartin' over the room, over the old chains that hung from the ceiling beams. I saw the stained wooden butcher block, its surface a dark, reddish-brown, and the cracked porcelain wash basin, its surface a map of cracks and fissures.

And my brain, in its fevered, panicked state, put it all together. The old butcher table, stained with the ghosts of a thousand slaughtered animals. And it came to the only conclusion it could, a conclusion that was as logical as it was terrifyin'.

She's gonna skin me.

I could feel it, the ghost of a knife against my skin, the cold, sharp edge of a blade peelin' back the flesh. I could feel the pain, the sharp, searin' agony of bein' flayed alive, the cold, empty space where my skin used to be, the raw, exposed nerves, a constant scream that seemed to echo in the quiet.

The boys were screamin', but it was just noise, a distant buzz like flies on a carcass. My own breath was a ragged, wet sound in my ears, the gurgle of blood in my throat the only thing that felt real. The world was a smear of red and brown, the smell of rust and old meat thick.

My eyes landed on the shard of glass layin' in the dirt, a wicked little star glintin' in the dim light. I pushed myself up, my arms giving out, and I crawled toward it, my knees scrapin' against the dirt floor, my hands leavin' a trail of dark blood. I reached for it, my fingers clumsy and slow, and I wrapped my hand around its sharp edge.

I launched myself at her, a wounded, pissed off creature.

The glass sank into her shoulder, a wet, tearing sound. She grunted, a surprised, animal sound, and stumbled back, her hand flyin' to the wound, tryin' to pull the shard out. The boys stood there, their faces, a perfect picture of stupid, slack-jawed shock.

But I wasn't done. My brain was a fever dream, a horror show playin' out behind my eyes. She was gonna skin me. She was gonna hang me from the rafters and leave me to rot. I needed to be the monster now. I needed to be the thing that came out of the dark.

My eyes found the sledgehammer leanin' against a stump. The handle was dark with old blood, the head a heavy, brutal thing that looked like it had been used to smash more than just pig skulls. I grabbed it, my fingers slippin' on the greasy wood, and hauled it up. It was heavier than I thought, a solid, dead weight.

Momma was still fumbling with the glass in her back, her steps a clumsy, backward shuffle. That's when I swung.

I didn't aim for her chest. I aimed for her face.

The hammer connected with a sickening, wet crunch, a sound like a watermelon bein' dropped from a great height. Her nose exploded in a spray of cartilage and blood, a fine, red mist that painted the wall. Her head snapped back, a spray of teeth and blood flyin' from her mouth, a grotesque, fireworks display of gore.

But I wasn't done. I swung again. And again. The hammer came down, a brutal rhythm. Her cheekbone caved in, a wet, squishin' sound that seemed to echo in the quiet. Her jaw shattered, a spray of bone and blood that painted the floor. Her eye popped, an orb-like thing that rolled across the floor, a sick, rubbery ball in the dirt.

I kept swingin', my arms a machine, my body a vessel for rage. I was a whirlwind of destruction, a goddess of death. I was the thing that came out of the woods.

I stood over her, my chest heavin', the hammer still raised high. She was a heap of meat and bone, a grotesque, unrecognizable thing, a bloody, pulpy mess on the floor. I looked down at her, and I felt a surge of power. I had done it. I had killed the queen of the holler. I had killed Momma. And it felt good.

Blythe stepped up slow, his boots crunchin' on the broken bone fragments scattered across the floor. He didn't say a word. He just reached out, his hands takin' the sledgehammer from my grip. The weapon felt heavy, dead, but I didn't fight him. I let it go, my arms feelin' like lead weights.

"Come on," he said, his voice low, a rumble in his chest. He grabbed my elbow, his grip firm, and pulled me toward the door. I stumbled, my vision swimmin' in and out of focus. The world was a blur of red, the smell of copper and iron a thick, cloyin' blanket that made it hard to breathe.