Work Text:
there was something so morbidly captivating about the deep south. sweltering hot air, the sound of wind chimes singing, crickets chirping, body slick with sweat and dirt.
nothing but home for miles to come. it wasn’t much to anyone but you, a horrible longing seeping into your bones when you’re anywhere but there.
growing up in the south was as glamorous as one could imagine. memories blurring into mere moments of blistering knees, near heatstrokes and the cry of cattle.
though that makes it seem like nothing more than bad, which isn’t quite true. there was another, sweeter part of growing up where you did.
puppy kisses, the clumsy brushing of hands, gifted raccoon skulls, gangly limbs intertwining until you’re nothing but one person in the humid southern night.
if there was one thing that got you through all the work, it was that odd boy named nubbins who would gift you the moon and all the stars in the sky just to see you smile.
and you'd been nothing short of ecstatic to grow with him, finally being able to indulge in a little more than sweet little kisses under the stars.
yet it’d come with something else. almost as if the price to pay for your soulmate was being able to see him for who he really was.
if everything else forgotten, this wouldn’t be. there was no way it would ever leave your head, for as long as you live.
the metallic tang in the air, screaming, thrashing— seeing those calloused hands that’ve been entangled in your hair more times than you can count, now slick with blood and the disgusting pinky substance of guts.
you’d thought you weren’t squeamish. after all, you’d seen cows split open from their stomach to their sternums more times then you can count.
there was only one subtle difference now. this time, your loving boyfriends’ hands weren’t digging into the stomach of a cow. no, they were digging into a human.
and who could blame you for the way you ran, almost immediately dispelling your stomach at the front porch of the house.
and who could blame the way the blood curdling scream left your throat at the feeling of those, slick, red stained hands on your back.
everything from then on being a bit less clear, you remember gangly limbs entangling once again like when you were teens— though this was less sweet, more like a coyote and bear mauling each other half to death.
after a while, it settled into sloppy wrestling, all heaving chests and half hearted pushes at the other.
even quicker than that, it dissolves into shuddering crys and soft reassurances. slick hands leaving the faint stinging of sin on your skin.
and there was really no one to blame when you didn’t report anything you’d seen— when you continued your relationship like that night was nothing more than a fever dream.
no one in the sawyer family would mention the way your fork would push and stab at the meat on your plate.
nor would they mention the way nubbins would be extra sweet with you the days they had meat for dinner.
the deep south really was beautiful. despite the screaming, and the scrubbing of the floorboards the next day it’s everything you’ve ever needed.