Sacred Bones

Page II.| Parched.

 "Come sit next to me boy," Father gestures as the door cracks open. He's an old man- but not too old. He's at that age of unquestioned authority when your hair is salt and peppered and no one second-guesses your transgressions. He motions with his hand, a flippant practiced thing, and cracks a smile that doesn't quite meet his eyes. I oblige, pushing forward into the room. My nose is immediately assaulted with the smell of burned food. Something crackles in the pan, all gristle and fat. I can feel, even behind me, the way Beaux tenses up when she sees Father's face.

"Ezra- you look thinner. Sit. eat."

"Of course."

I hate the way my voice trembles in my mouth. Father; predator that he is, picks up on this weakness immediately.

"Is your throat hurting you boy?"

"Yes sir."

"Father," he corrects, eyes wrinkling at the corners. "I'll get you some tea my boy."

Beaux clears her throat. Cracks her knuckles. Swallows loud enough that in the silence it sounds vulgar.

"Yes, doll?" Father snips. Doll. not a person. He looks at her like she's something that could be easily posed or discarded. Beaux snarls with her whole body.

"Ez said his throat hurts so bad he can't swallow."

Father squints at this.

"Is this true Ezra?"

"Yes," I rasp dryly. "I think I might be– coming down with something."

Hope staggers up next to me and clasps my hand again. I shake my head almost imperceptibly. This is not his punishment to take. Everything has two sides here, including food and drink.

"May I have–tea?" he asks, pointing to the rusting kettle with his free hand. I look out of the corner of my eyes at the way his fingers tremble with the motion.

Father clasps his hands.

"Of course. Beaux? Would you be a doll and put the water on please?"

Beaux walks to the cupboard and takes out two chipped mugs. She fills the kettle up almost noiselessly and puts a log on the woodfire stove, striking a match against the wood. The flame flares up and she pulls back, grabbing the herbal 'mixture' from above the cupboard. I watch her dump a spoonful into one brittle white mug as her shoulders sag.

It's a rare feeling to observe someone get poisoned. To stand there and not stop it.

It won't kill Hope. Father doesn't design his punishments that way. Even splitting a skull won't end us, though by all accounts it should. Obedience is the ultimate goal here.

And yesterday I skipped a ceremony.

Father didn't yell. Instead, he brought food to my door. A few hours of drugged stupor was my scolding. The message is always clear.

'I will leave the door open. You can disobey- you can even leave, but if you do there will be wolves waiting in the dark and you have only ever known one home.'

So we stay. I can't tell if it's cowardice or self-preservation at this point. And now Hope is taking my continued punishment for me. Beaux would call it even since I take strikes for him.

There is no balance here, even if she calls it by that word.

The kettle boils and the water is poured into the mug, too dark and too sweet for water.

Hope downs the drink in three unpausing gulps, heat escaping from his mouth in a flush.

Father blinks at the motion.

"Thirsty, are we?"

Hope shuts his eyes against the light.

"Parched."