Beneath the Bruised Sky

6858 words

Jo’s hands gripped the edge of the kitchen sink, knuckles pale against the chipped porcelain, as she stared out the window toward the cotton field. The glass was smudged with years of neglect, a film of grit that made the world outside look like it was underwater, wavering and wrong. Her breath hitched, catching on the sharp edge of something she couldn’t name, while the house around her hummed—a low, bone-deep sound she swore wasn’t there yesterday. The field stretched endless under a sky bruised purple with late afternoon, the rows of white bolls like teeth bared in the dirt. And there, at the far edge where the trees hunched like mourners, the black stain pulsed. She could feel it, even from here, a heartbeat under the earth, pushing up, hungry. “Jo, you hear me?” Robert’s voice cut through, rough as gravel, from the doorway behind her. She didn’t turn. Couldn’t. Her fingers tightened on the sink, the cold metal biting into her palms. He stepped closer, boots scuffing the warped linoleum, and she caught the scent of motor oil and sweat clinging to him after hours under the truck hood. “I said I’m takin’ Lily into town. Get her outta this damn place for a bit. You comin’ or not?” Her throat worked, dry as ash. “Can’t,” she managed,...