Origins of Blood (RE)

For a moment, I look up and meet my father's gaze. In the same heartbeat, I know I will regret it. His hand is raised high, a plate balanced in his palm, which he hurls diagonally across the room toward the door leading into the hall. The sound of it shattering echoes through the dining chamber. He sneers at me, a curl of disdain on his lips, and I swallow hard. My eyes flicker away, fighting the sting of tears—anything but this. Don't let him see you. Don't let him remember you are present.

My knees tremble beneath the table. My heart pounds in rhythm with his rampage, each thud like a drum of war in my chest. Seven beats—time enough to inhale slowly and silently. Not too loudly. Mostly, I hold my breath until it burns, then let it out as soundlessly as thin air. Another six beats pass before I dare take in more. I manage three or four breaths before black and white spots flicker in my vision.

Footsteps, and again I risk a glance, but he's gone. Instead, every pair of eyes belonging to my brothers and sisters has turned toward me. None of them speaks, though I wouldn't listen if they did.

My head throbs, and blood rushes through me like it did the first time I ever tasted violet blood—on my twentieth birthday, a "gift" from Father. Not even a tenth of our lives spent, yet for oranges, is the threshold where childhood ends. For the blues, it's different, and for the lower born, adulthood comes much sooner.

I rise from my seat, the meat in my mouth is no longer meat, only a soft cream, and I force myself to swallow. My shoulders ache, and I take a long, quiet breath. Somewhere in the room, Elisia, the 22nd, whispers to Timothy, and Timothy—always eager to make his voice heard—answers loudly enough that even if I tried to ignore him, I couldn't.

"You've fallen for the eldest Rosenmahl. Sebastian, or whatever his name was."

I narrow my eyes, even though his words aren't for me. I step away from the table, leaving with an elegant posture, my plate untouched.

"You're the reason for Father's rampage!" Timothy adds, mockery curling in his tone, looking at Elisia, the 22nd.

A faint smile touches my lips—one I quickly try to hide—but Timothy catches it, and now I'm in the turn to be his prey.

"Be Father's present today, will you?" he sneers.

I don't rise to the bait, though, as with every birthday, the accusations cut deep, so I keep walking. The maids begin clearing the table, and one offers me a handkerchief. I take it, dabbing at my lips.

My thoughts drift unexpectedly to the youngest of the Rosenmahl family. Aston. Is he like me? The thought swirls in my mind like a river spilling into the ocean, even though I've met him only once, and that was rather bizarre. The golden chandeliers above are dark, leaving the dim blue light of the azure sun to spill into the corridors. My heels—modest, not too high—click against the floor as I step off the orange carpet. Ahead, the corridor stretches out, lined with quiet misfortune, until at last, I will be alone in my chambers.

…

On my way, each step makes my head throb harder. Before long, tears slip down my cheeks, tracing black streaks where my makeup melts away. Only once I step inside my chambers do I see myself in the mirror—my reflection cursed, as though some malicious hand has painted my features in grief. The tears shimmer on my skin like rain pooling in the streets after a moon shift.

I lean closer, the mirror blurred through the film of tears, and wipe my cheeks with quick and impatient swipes. My posture is bent and small, and I force myself to stand taller. My orange dress clings to me, pearls resting cold against my wrists and neck. I try to smile. I really try. I want to see someone in that reflection who feels real. But I see nothing.

With a sharp movement, I shove the standing mirror toward the left wall. My breath comes heavy, and blood roars in my ears until it drowns out every other sound. The mirror lies on its side, unbroken.

I look around for something else—something I can destroy to bleed this anger out—but all I see are my king-sized bed, the wardrobes, two tables, and small, useless trinkets. Rage boils over, and I turn back to the mirror, grab it, and strike at its back with my fist. The glass doesn't splinter. I hit it again, and again, my arms aching, my strength still far from what an orange should have. Still young. Still weak. But I don't stop until I've lifted it and hurled it out the open window.

Thud. Shatter.

I lean over the sill, hair spilling across my face, a sharp breath snorting past my upper lip. Below, shards glitter like frost on the street beside the meadow. From four stories up, it looks almost beautiful.

I keep going. Anything I can grab—boxes of accessories, stacks of books, bundles of letters, cushions—I fling them all out. Each crash, each scattering of objects across the stones, is a minor release. I don't care if they punish me later; after all, they won't have the chance. Not after tonight. No more stress, no more expectations, no more endless parading before other families. Most of all, Father will no longer be able to use me as Mother's replacement.

I glance at my hands—uninjured, though the fine gloves are torn—I won't be his whore anymore.

"Princess Elisia, the first guests have arrived."

The voice cuts through everything. It belongs to my chief maid, a woman near my age.

And with those words, the last banquet of my life begins.