It's Only Tradition

Claire sat on the edge of her bed, stone-faced. With her mouth in a tight line and her eyes as cold and as dry as steel, she looked straight ahead at her doorknob. She willed it to be still, to never move and leave her quiet and unmoving on this bed until the end of time. The dress felt like a heavy drape on her body and the vail, like cobwebs on her hair. At this very moment, Claire hated everything and everyone.

Though she wished until every muscle ached and stared until her eyes throbbed, that's traitor of a doorknob still turned and with every inch, she could feel her heart sink deeper in her chest.

It was her mother. She walked in, heels snapping on the hardwood floor, all smiles and hair spray. "Claire, that dress looks wonderful on you; fits you perfectly." She looked at Claire for a moment, the smile never wavering. "Honey, why the long face? This is a happy day, you really should smile." Claire shoots a venomous glare at her mother and it wilts that never-ending smile like a rose petal on searing hot pavement. Then it's back just as quickly. "I don't understand why you suddenly have this attitude, Claire. You've always known you were going to marry him. You've had eighteen years to prepare." 

Claire spits her words out like spoiled food, "But you never told me that he-,"

"Claire, I don't want to hear it. Remember, it's only tradition." She grabbed Claire's hands with hers and absentmindedly rubbed the back of Claire's hands with her thumbs. Too obvious. Claire ripped her hands away and covered the back of her left hand with her right. Covered the mark, the star that cursed her.

Claire felt hopeless and alone. All she had left was to plead. So she did, feeling like a child she whispered, " Mom please, I really don't want-,"

She cut Claire off with her all-to-high, all-to-happy tone. "I think it's about time for us to join the others downstairs, it's almost time for the ceremony. Come on, honey." She, not so gently this time, grabbed Claire's wrist and pulled her up and out the door.

The hall was dim and lit with an excessive number of candles. The music was low, but it hung heavy and melodic in the air around Claire. She followed her mother to the top of the stairs, wobbling every other step on her short heels. They reached the edge of the stairs and Clair looked down at the rest of her family.

Claire couldn't breathe and Her chest felt tight. She was getting dizzy. Claire grabbed onto the railing to steady herself, forcing her mother to release her wrist and nearly knocking a candle over the edge in the process. Instead, it just rocked there, as wobbly as her in her little heels.

Claire left it wobbling there. Rocking above her family with their black hooded robes lined with gold, their hands reaching out to her like she was their messiah. In a way, she thought, she was. They weren't reaching out for her to save them though, they were reaching for her soul.

Still unable to breathe Claire headed down the stairs beside her mother, black dress trailing behind her like an oil slick river. As she got nearer the bottom the closer relatives reached out to touch the back of her left hand. To touch her mark, her cursed star. Claire bit her lip until she tasted blood. She could hear the whispers, things like, "Angrok's bride", "The mark chose her", and " The family will be safe for another hundred years." It made Claire sick. They were talking about her. 

After a time of greetings and pleasantries, the family made their way to the basement, incense and copper drifting in waves up this second staircase, deepening her fears. Claire stood frozen looking down into the dark depths, knowing somehow that if she went down there, she wouldn't be coming back up. Claire was afraid.

"Come on Claire, it's almost over." Her mother put a hand on Claire's back trying to urge her into the dark belly of the basement, but Claire still could not move. She grabbed Claire's wrist again, ready to pull her down.

"Mom-," it came out as a pleading, high-pitched whine.

"Claire come on, it's traditio-,"

"No no no no no no." Claire couldn't hold it together anymore, all the fear and anger came out in a torrent. Claire thrashed out, punching and waving. She kicked and spit, wild-eyed like a madwoman, and finally, her mother let go in the assault. In this instant, Claire kicked off the awful, tiny heels, hiked up her dress, and bolted for the front door. She flung open the door before the rest of the family was even back up the stairs.

She ran. Claire ran as fast and as hard as she could down the empty midnight street, to the sounds of her family crying and calling out in fear and anguish of their very own at the sight of her tearing down the street away from the house. Screw tradition, screw the hundred-year curse, and screw Angrok, these were Claire's only thoughts as she ran. If one was to look out their window they would see a gothic queen flying on the silver rays of the full moon. 

Clair was still running when the cries of fear and anguish turned to cries of pain and death. Claire slowed, stopped, then turned to face the house now too far away to make out any people.

Sudden silence.

That was when the fire started, the magnificent house, old as American history and as old as the family's wealth, was licked by orange and red as it was consumed by the flames leaving nothing behind except the ashes of uncountable wealth.

Claire never saw the fire though. It was the cloud of black shadow and mist, swirling into a void far beyond her, that made her blood run cold and stole the final scream from Claire's lips.

In the end, it was only tradition.