Heritage – flash fiction
The swollen meat pie sat in front of me and the sweet smell sickened me. My stomach twisted itself into a ball and I held my arms and clenched my teeth, fighting down the mounting bile. My eyes began to water, and my father smirked.
“It’s time to embrace your heritage, my son. You will soon be tasked with leading our clan.” His hand fell upon my shoulder like a boulder, and my resolve weakened. “Don’t worry. It was no one that you knew.”
I stared into my father’s silver eyes, and I felt my will disintegrating. I suddenly found my hands clutching the knife and fork. I turned away from my father and looked down towards the pie. I could feel a primal urge overtaking me, and I began to salivate. What little will I had left shouted in protest, but some deep desire I didn’t even know I had called out to me. I licked my lips and the buttery steam from the pie warmed my face.
I suddenly remembered riding in the carriage down the cobblestone streets, watching as people would scurry away as soon as we were seen. I watched as my father’s eyes would dart back and forth amongst the crowd, looking for something or.. someone. Once, I saw a beautiful young woman with ebony hair and rosy cheeks. We locked eyes, and although her face was expressionless, her eyes screamed in terror of me and my family.
“No!” I slammed down the cutlery. “I may be of your blood, but I am not your son!”
My father laughed a cold, hard laugh. “We shall see, won’t we?” With that, he abandoned me in the tower room, locking the door as he left.
I sat up and walked over to the six-foot high windows and pulled back the velvet drapes. The snow thrashed outside, and as I peered down into the inky blackness, I wondered how much snow would be needed to break my fall from such a height. I flung open the latch and the icy wind forced its way inside, causing me to gasp in shock. The roar of the wind was deafening. I took another look back at that steaming, vile pastry, and I clutched my chest. I turned back towards the window.
It couldn’t have been more than an hour before my father returned. As he entered, he surveyed the open window, and the small pile of snow forming on the sill. He closed the window, and I saw him smile that sick, twisted smile of his. I silently cursed him and the blood that ran in my veins.
He slowly walked over to the table and took the empty plate from my hands, every single, succulent, delicious morsel having been licked clean. I felt both sickened and aroused at the memory of that first bite, my teeth penetrating the flaky crust which soon yielded to the wet, tender human parts.
As my father left the tower, I knew then that I would kill him and the rest of my family before taking my own life. Yes, I would certainly kill them all. I made a vow to myself that I would rid the world of the dark blight that was my lineage, and to show my determination I cut a blood pact into my forearm.
The crimson sigil that began to form stung, yet I could not stop staring at the lustrous rubaline wine forming on my arm. I swallowed hard. I needed to focus on the dread task at hand, yet some strange feeling, vile yet natural, stirred in my belly, and before I knew it, my arm was clean and the sweet metallic tang of blood filled my mouth.
Yes, I would slaughter my family while they slept. I would butcher them all, and then…then I would feast.