Page 9 of The Sanguine Selection
I will never love again.
5
Oxana
100 Years Later
A shriekingwind rattles the ice-thin window panes, the sound a harbinger of the storm to come. I sit close to the hearth, stirring my pathetic concoction of thin broth and vegetables, seasoned with whatever spices my father managed to forage.
I pull my shawl closer around my shoulders, but the action nor the burning fire does anything to warm the coldness creeping over me. A frozen breeze sweeps under the door and a shiver trembles my bones—it's as if Death himself has laid an icy finger against my skin. The sensation jars me and I stand so fast that I knock over the tiny wooden stool in an effort to get away.
Rubbing my hands up and down my arms in a feeble attempt to warm myself, I pace frantically back and forth, and wonder when Papa will be home. Howls join the wind, unnatural and strange, and a tremor shakes my hand as I finger the necklace Papa slipped over my neck before leaving—the one he always wears when he goes out.
Never in my twenty-two years has he left to hunt without it, and I fear what it means, but I also know it would’ve been pointless to ask. Whenever I pose questions about the outside world, Papa just tells me there’s nothing for me to worry about.
Except I'm grown now, and he won't be here forever. I'll need to learn how to do more than just throw ingredients into a pot over a fire and call it a stew or mend torn clothing with tarnished needles. It's the duty of the man to provide for his family, but never once has my father spoken of me marrying. He cloisters me away in this house, hiding me from everything, and forcing a disguise upon me even in the few moments when I’ve been allowed outside to enjoy a breath of fresh air.
The world outside is cruel, this is all I know from him—I would no sooner step out the front door than have my throat slit—but I can't help but wonder if he's thought of what will happen to me when he's gone. Who will care for me? Only a fool would take someone like me for his wife. I don't even have the basic knowledge to take care of myself. How the hell could I ever take care of a family? In his bid to protect me, Papa's left me completely defenseless.
Vulnerable.
I exhale and return to the hearth, righting the stool and sitting back down. My mind is set. Tonight when Papa gets home, we're having a talk. I'm a grown woman, and my future should be settled. At the very least, I should have a say in it. The stress of the unknown, of feeling so unprepared is killing me more than the truth of what’s out there ever could. Or…at least that’s my argument.
I mean…humanity lives on out there right? We’re not the last two people on earth. They are surviving out there somehow, so why can’t I? By my age, Mama had been married for three years and already had me for two. I glance over at the charcoal drawing of my mother, the only image I have of her. She's wearing the same necklace my father gave me before he left.
Bitterly, I look away. The damned thing obviously didn't help her, so I don't know why Papa thinks it will save me. I blame her death for the reason why everything is so bleak in my life, and why my father is so extreme.
Some days, I believe him about the world outside, but if it's so terrible, how come he leaves and comes back unscathed every time? I think he lives mired in his guilt and grief over the loss of his wife and can't bear to lose me, too. In return, Papa does the only thing he thinks is safe—to keep me under lock and key.
Hidden and forgotten.
But this is no life, there’s no happiness imprisoned within the four walls of our small hut we call a home. Aside from learning how to sew, cook, and the basics of reading and writing, I know nothing of use—how to hunt for food, how to tan the hides to make clothing, nothing. Papa has always been adamant that anything which could cut or hurt me was too dangerous. Even allowing me a sewing needle was against his better wishes.
Not a single drop of blood must be spilt from you.
Those were his words. I knew to be careful growing up if I wanted to keep the privilege of sewing and cooking. I mustn’t ever prick my fingers or burn myself. My movements must be slow and cautious, not just with a needle or a ladle, but in life itself.
Because of this, I’m normally quite methodical and careful, but in recent months, I’ve become quite stir-crazy. The four walls of my tiny home close in around me more and more every day as something grows inside of me that I don't understand. All I know is it wants out.
My thoughts are interrupted when the door bursts open, and Papa’s large body fills the frame. Relief courses through me at the sight of him holding not just one, but two jackrabbits. His hunt was successful, the outcome which is becoming less and less frequent. I rush forward and take the kill to prepare them for dinner. “These will make a fine stew, indeed!”
Papa smiles but it twists into a grimace. “It’s been a long time since we’ve had a proper dinner.”
Too long.
“Did you find any vegetable roots?” Despite trying to sound nonchalant, there’s a wistful note in my voice.
Papa lowers the jackrabbits to the floor and shrugs off his thick, winter fur coat, his lips pulling into a frown. “No, I’m sorry, my child. I was barely lucky enough to scrounge up the ingredients for your tonic.”
I blanche, whirling away to skin one jackrabbit. Papa’s tonic is a vile concoction meant to keep me strong and healthy. And while it works, the taste of it turns my stomach, made worse by the fact that it’s usually too empty to handle the potent tonic. “That’s all right. I’ll get this meat cut up and cooking in no time. Go clean up for dinner.”
My father eyes the knife in my hand. “Be careful.” His gruff command is even more curt tonight than normal.
“Are you feeling ok, Papa?”
He waves a hand. “It was cold out there tonight. I tracked our dinner further and longer than I intended.”
It’s at this moment that I see how aged Papa has become, how weary. He’s no longer able to hide the limp in his gait or the curling of his fingers as arthritis sets within his bones. “I was beginning to worry…”
