Page 2 of The Flesh That Binds Us

YOU CAN KEEP ALL THAT, FOR HIS FLESH IS MINE.

THE SKINNER

It became clear in that moment that our worst fear had become true: Dad had been the victim of the notorious serial killer who was terrorising our town. It was the one thing I never thought would happen to him…until it did. Isn’t that how it always goes?

The Skinner was an evil, vile creature who tortured his victims for three months before removing their flesh and dumping their skinless corpses around town—leaving macabre poems in the mailboxes of his victims' homes to let their family know that their missing loved one would never return was his signature.

Unfortunately by then, my father had been his fifth victim, and the authorities hadn’t even made a break in the case for his first victim who was a local kindergarten teacher that was murdered three years prior. When our father’s remains were discovered in a ditch three months later with his head missing—an unusual occurrence to The Skinner’s usual method—all hope for his safe return had diminished.

The repercussions of his untimely death were profound. In the blink of an eye, my life had shifted from carefree to struggling to sleep with the lights on, doors always locked, windows firmly shut, and familiar faces filled with unwanted pity.

My older brother was left with no other option but to give up his dream of playing professional AFL to work nine to five at Coles down the road a few weeks ago. Dad’s inheritance had run out, and somebody needed to support us. It wasn't much to begin with, but it covered the bills while we tried to get our lives back to the way it was. Peter even suggested the other night that we move to the city for a fresh start.

But me?

I just wanted everything to go back to the way it was.

Like waking up with the sunset seeping through the partially opened curtains, blanketing my room in its hues of pinks and orange. Or spending the afternoon at Dad’s shop, trying to learn how to do his books for when I graduated, before driving back home together where we’d find Peter and his best friend in the backyard already playing a game of footy.

But now? Nothing would ever be the same again.

A fly fluttered past my face, and I swatted it away lazily, staring up at the stars.

Tomorrow, I would turn eighteen.

It didn’t feel like something to celebrate though, but then again, nothing did anymore. What was the point when we were all going to either drop dead or end up murdered? The fly screen creaked open behind me, but I didn’t turn my head straight away. I knew exactly who it was by the sound of his footsteps on the dry patch near the veranda.

“I thought I’d find you out here.”

His voice was softer than usual, but it still sent that familiar dip through my stomach. It always did. I glanced up and he was standing just a few feet away, hands shoved into his pockets, hair unkempt like he’d been running his fingers through it.

“You always do.” I gave a lazy smile.

He huffed a soft, breathy laugh and lowered himself onto the grass beside me, his familiar sandalwood cologne blooming in the air between us. As usual, it made me want to curl up beside him, and I inhaled it greedily, like I needed it to survive. Then again, maybe at that point…I did.

Jackson Easton was the love of my life—I’m sure of it. Tall and athletic, with a shaggy blonde mullet, hazel eyes you could get lost in, and dimples that made my heart ache. He was so handsome, it was unfair. But he was so much more than his good looks. He was everything to me.

I was seven when I saw him for the first time. The cute, older boy who ran faster than anyone else on the field. He played on the same AFL team as my brother, and while they trained every afternoon, I sat on the sidelines with Dad, cheering just as loudly when my brother’s best friend scored. We’d gone to the same school and grown up together. With his dad gone and his mum struggling, Jackson spent more evenings at our house than his own. Dinners were always loud and full of footy debates, and the weekends blurred into sleepovers in the lounge room.

Wherever Jackson and my brother went, I followed. I’d trail after the two of them no matter what they did, blushing and giggling whenever he’d speak to me.

But as I got older, the crush I’d always carried bloomed into something deeper, something inevitable. Loving him felt effortless, like it had been written in the stars long before either of us knew it. He made it easy. He was always looking out for me, always making space for me, especially when we were out with my brother. The three of us were a packaged deal, together wherever we roamed. Late-night drives with me wedged between them, our thighs pressed together, music spilling from the radio as we sang along. Sometimes our eyes would meet, and we’d share little smiles my brother never noticed.

I’d spent so much time staring at him, watching the way his lips formed words as they left his mouth—hoping he felt the same, but certain he never would.

“Big day tomorrow,” he said eventually, bringing a faint smile to my face.

“S’just a number,” I murmured.

“Eighteen’s not just a number, Evie.”

“It is when everything's already changed.” The words slipped out before I could stop them. I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t. I kept my eyes fixed on the sky, blinking back the tears. I wanted to take them back, but then his hand brushed mine—just barely at first, like he was asking permission—and I held my breath as his fingers curled around mine, warm and steady.

“I know it’s been…” He exhaled slowly. “Shit. All of it,” he said. “But for what it’s worth…I’m really glad you’re still here.”

That did it. My throat tightened, and I had to swallow hard to keep everything from spilling out. Like about how much I wanted to fall into his arms and just let everything go, or how I missed my father so much, my heart hurt constantly—that I didn’t think I could keep going if it wasn't for him.

“Me too,” I admitted, a whispered confession.