Rated R for language and disturbing and violent scenarios. (489 words)
Every time Huck looked out into the forest to the north, he remembered. It was an involuntary remembrance, and what he wouldn’t give to stop it. Sometimes he even dragged all the wood to the front of the house, back to the forest, just to spare himself the sight. Still, every once in a while, he’d look. Accident maybe. Maybe he really did want to look. Maybe he wanted to remember her.
Soft. That was what her skin felt like. Smooth, shiny and ebony. Her lips, God almighty. Molly’s lips couldn’t hold a candle to them.
Molly, just another reason to shake off the memory. Whenever he got that distant look in his eye she’d get suspicious, wringing out her apron and pressing her thin lips together.
“What’cha thinkin’ about Huck. Wood won’t cut itself.”
Huck would just nod and grunt. Then he would shiver slightly, the memory of her fingers stroking down his back so tenderly, flooding his skin. She was innocent, sweet like a flower, but wet inside, like a humid New Orleans day. If he could have stopped himself from touching her. Well it wouldn’t be like this.
That was always when the memory turned bad. There he was, face to face, almost nose to nose with the figure. He could smell the alcohol on his breath, see the sweat beading under the white cotton, blue eyes peeking out from their peepholes.
“This nigger whore don’t deserve to carry your child!”
And all Huck had been able to say- “Please.”
Please what? Please, fucking, what?
He should have smashed the fucker in the face, told him to go mind his own business, go back to screwing pigs. But all he could do was watch, and when it was over, when they’d tramped away like ghosts into the woods, leaving him with her, then he could only hide his face against his knees. His Levi’s smelled like cow shit and mangled grass. He breathed it in, trying to imagine just for a second that he was out in the field, tossing hay bales off the truck. No luck, so he’d picked himself up, cut her down. No one deserved to just hang there, all exposed and forgotten. The crickets close by took up their deafening song again, so Huck did the only thing he could think to do, cradle her, humming a soft lullaby close to her ear, feeling her warmth escaping.
If he’d had the guts, he would have buried her, or better, avenged her. Instead he was here, five years later, chopping wood until his muscles burned.
A blow to the head.
That cotton would be soaked red now.
If he cut the shoulder sure enough, the whole thing would come off.
God almighty, have mercy.
On a wretched soul like him.
“Huck, suppers ready, haul that wood in before it gets cold.”
“In a minute Molly dear, just a minute.”