Page 10 of The Sanguine Selection
Papa gives me a wan grin of reassurance. “Don’t fret for me, child. Now, finish dinner while I go change.”
He strides away but pauses to eye the necklace resting against my chest. I reach to take it off so that he can hang it back by the door where it belongs, but Papa stops me. “Keep it on for now.”
His words surprise me. We always put mother’s necklace back. It's tradition, as if her spirit is within and watches over us while we do our chores and sleep. I open my mouth to ask the questions burning inside me, but Papa walks away, his shoulders set in resolution. I'll have to wait until he’s full from an actual meal and sleepy before I try to get anything out of him.
As I lay the first aside and begin to cut up the meat, the silver of the blade glints, catching the light from the fire behind me when I shift. Something dangerous sparks inside of me, fueled by my banked vitriol, and I run the blade along my skin.
The tip drags over my flesh, promising pain, but I'm not foolish enough to actually cut myself. Not when the thing’s covered in the blood of another animal. Papa's told me stories about the infections that run rampant in the city from mishandling animal meat, causing festering sickness.
Whatever madness flitted into my mind drifts away just as quickly. It's unnatural to contemplate self-harm, but, at times, my father's overbearing order seems to have eradicated any common sense. He’s encapsulated me, away from all other life, that other than worry I’ve forgotten how to feel. I find even pain alluring, because it’s something more than the emptiness I feel inside, more than the lack of feeling. I’m so sick of bearing this hollowness. It’s depressing. I eye the blade again and wonder if my blood is as red as the jackrabbits. Wonder if the muscle inside my body is pink too.Or tastes as good.I smile ruefully, shaking my head to dispel my thoughts.
Papa comes out a short time later, his movements labored. I cast furtive glances in his direction, trying to discern what’s wrong. Never has he returned from a hunt so worn down. I frown, wishing he would drink some of my tonic to make him just as healthy as me, but he refuses, insisting I need it more.
I’m so busy looking at my father that, for the first time in all my life, the knife slips. The sharp end catches the tip of my pointer finger, and I gasp at the contact. There’s pain, but something more hidden underneath. It hurts… but I like it.
I know it’s strange to enjoy such a sensation, but for years all I’ve felt is panic, worry, hunger, and longing. It feels good to experience something new, somethingmore.
“Oxana!” In an instant, Papa is at my side, his eyes wide and frantic. “Quick, stem the flow with this!” He pulls out the kerchief Mama embroidered for him as a wedding gift to wrap around my wounded finger. For twenty-four years, he’s kept it with him, treating the lacey scrap of fabric with reverence, his one prized possession.
As red blood bleeds into the fabric, staining the ivory, anguish builds in my chest at destroying this one memento he has from her. “Papa! You’ll ruin your kerchief!”
“It doesn’t matter,” he mutters, and I gape. I’ve never even touched the squared cloth until this moment because my father reveres it so much. We stand in silence until Papa finally removes the kerchief to inspect my finger. “The bleeding’s stopped.”
I peer down, quietly disappointed that I didn’t get to see the blood bead along the cut and drip down my skin. There’s a small red dot to indicate the origin of the wound, but beyond that, nothing, and I marvel at how fast my body worked to stop the bleeding.
Without a backward glance, Papa tosses the kerchief into the fire. I cry out, lunging toward the flames, but my father catches me, holding my petite frame captive. He’s a burly man, standing nearly six feet, but I take after my mother, barely coming up to his chest.
“Let me go! We can wash it!”
His grip upon me tightens. “It is gone—leave it.”
“B-b-but you love it!”
“Not as much as I love you.”
His words don’t make any sense. What does his love for me have to do with my mother’s wedding gift to him? Does he think I think he loves it more than me?
My father releases me, his breathing shallow. “Finish cooking dinner.” He turns to go sit in his chair near the fire, and he hisses, gripping his side.
“Papa, are you ok?”
He collapses into the wooden seat he carved long before I was born and lets out a long, exhausted breath. “I’m fine.”
He doesn’t say anything more, and my worry escalates but I leave him alone. A serving of warm stew will do him a world of good. I work quickly but with more caution so as not to cut myself again. In no time, I place a chipped bowl filled with hot stew in his hands, watching as they shake.
“You’re not fine,” I accuse, angry at his lies.
Papa tries to wave me off as he’s done a million times before. “It’s nothing—”
“Stop saying that! You always say, ‘it’s nothing, child,’ but obviously, it’s something!”
Papa tenses, avoiding my eyes. “I’m just…a little under the weather. Nothing to worry about.”
My teeth grind together at his continual use ofnothing. “Then we need to get you some medicine.”
“Later. Let’s just enjoy our meal. It reminds me of a recipe your mother used to make… I can’t believe she’s been gone so long.” His eyes glaze with tears, and my anger melts faster than snow under the warm Spring sun.
We tuck into the stew, and I try to pace myself. Although the temperatures outside are cold enough to keep the food for many days, it’s dangerous to leave anything outdoors that could draw wild animals—or worse—to our home.
