The House of Atreus bears a curse. One steeped in blood and nourished by decades of violence.
Klytemnestra knew this when she married Agamemnon, but being a princess in Sparta doesn't leave you with much choice, though she longs for it. The Fates s...
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The curse began with my great-great-grandfather.
Despite its name, the House of Atreus starts with Tantalus. Being the son of Zeus and respected by the Olympians wasn't enough for him. He wanted to test the power that sets them apart from us humans. So he killed and served up his son for dinner, just to see if they would notice. They did, of course, and send him to Tartarus for it, where he's being tortured for eternity. While they cursed his bloodline to kill one another constantly.
At least that's what the storytellers say. No one, who lived back then can tell us the truth. Except maybe the Gods. But who's to say they even exist? I am sick and tired of the indifference of these supposed higher beings. Who care for nothing else but their own entertainment. Who play us like little puppets. Aren't they just an excuse for our wrongdoings? It's so much easier to blame Fate or a curse for the mayhem we put each other through. To place the responsibility elsewhere.
There's freedom in forsaking the Gods. Just as they have forsaken us. There's solace in knowing that everything I did, I did of my own volition. I have brought my demise upon myself.
I watch over my brother as he sleeps, fitfully. He's shifting in his slumber, kicking away the blankets. He looks so young, innocent. Except for the remains of dried blood underneath his fingernails. Mine are scrubbed clean. He's clearly haunted by what we did. He isn't like me, he's still fighting for his soul while I close my eyes and accept my judgment.
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Notes:
Tartarus: A part of hell in Greek mythology where the wicked are tortured and the Titans are held prisoner, a deep abyss.
