I didn’t understand at first why I had to do this, but it was just a family tradition. Cut the meat, put it on the plate, and wait. It was a pretty plate, one of those decorated with gold around the edges, a white base, and a watercolor-esque rose plopped right in the center. The blood left from the raw meat kind of mingled with the pink and red hues of the flower, creating an almost new type of art entirely.
The night this task was delegated to me was on my fifteenth birthday. It was delegated to my older sister when she turned that age, three years ago. It will be delegated to my younger sister in five years. Before we were of age, it was my poor mother. But only the girls, never the guys.
This night, I wanted to find out why. It was stupid, I had been doing it for over a year now. I had not asked questions. But this night, on an overly hot day in June, I’d just had enough. Of the smell of coppery blood, of the sight of raw, uncooked meat held as an offering. But to what? To whom?
I crouched under the coffee table in the living room. Wasn’t a perfect place to hide, but gave me a perfect view. It was the only place feasible enough without moving things around and drawing suspicion. I squatted for hours, watching, waiting.
I must’ve become tired and dozed off. I was face first on the carpet, sticking out of my hiding place, my safe space. I was cold even though warmth came through the window in the form of sunlight. I sighed, stood, walked to the plate. Empty. I went to the bathroom to rewrap my latest wound, the back of my arm. Then my legs. Then my back. I didn’t know how mom and sister lasted so long. I went about my day, took the school bus, wore long sleeves, tried to keep my head down.
The next night, I drank coffee. I stayed awake. And at 3:13 am, a man entered the room. I popped out of my hiding place. I wasn’t a victim.
He turned to look at me. I froze. His hazel eyes were fuzzy, clouded over, but I knew his crooked nose, furry eyebrows, unkempt beard. Dad.
“Why?” I asked.
He licked his lips, blood from my flesh running down his face.
“You would never understand what I am, what I went through. I had no choice, to eat them. Or I would die before having a son to pass the bloodline over to.”
I shook my head. Mom, sister, all dead because of him.
I ran, ran out of the house as fast as I could. He didn’t even bother to chase me.
I sit at a friends house writing this now. She thinks it’s a normal sleepover.
I have to go back for my younger sister. I just want someone to know my story. I know I’ll die if I go back, but the tradition dies with me.