First Born Son

Before I was born my mother was given a warning. "The blood of your first born daughter will be on the hands of your first born son." 

This warning was given to her by a witch. 

A witch who also just so happened to be my grandmother. 

Now, my mother had never been particularly close to her mother, more of a Daddy’s Girl, but when she was told this it only pushed them further apart. My mother refused to believe that my grandmother’s warning was only to scare her away from marrying my father, a wealthy landowner in the next town over. 

So when I was born, then two years later my oldest sister, my mother thought nothing of Grandma Ada’s warnings.

When I was thirteen I heard of Grandma Ada’s warning for the first time. 

We all sat at the dinner table, my mother, my father, my four younger sisters and I. 

Mother, being herself, had had a little too much wine and when my mother has too much wine she becomes nostalgic. She had been staring into the fireplace across the room, wine glass in hand, when she had begun to giggle. 

“Joan?” My father had asked, watching his wife carefully, “What do you find humorous?”

“Do you remember?” She tore her eyes from the fireplace and fixed them on my father.

“Remember what, my love?”

“My mother’s warning? The blood of your first born daughter will be on the hands of your first born son. Oh, if only she could see Isabella and Aldwin now, thick as thieves these two.” Mother turns to look at me as her hand sways her almost empty glass side to side. “You would never kill your sister, would you, Aldwin?”

At the time I had known only four things about my maternal grandmother. Her name was Ada, she was a witch, she hated my father, and she had died 11 years ago on the very day Isabella was born.

I am to this day unsure who was more horrified by her question. Me, my sister or my father.

“Joan-” My father had started, but she had held up her pointer finger, growing serious when I did not answer. 

“You would never kill your sister, Aldwin, right?” Her voice was steel, sharper then the clink her glass made when she set it down hard on the mahogany table. 

“Of course not, mama!” I had crowed, on the verge of tears. 

My father stood in a flourish, face a mask of anger. “Joan. I believe it is time for you to lie down for bed.”

Mother looked at him in surprise, either very good at faking it or honestly confused by her husband's anger. “I have yet to finish my dinner.”

“You are drunk, Joan. You will not finish your dinner if you are drunk. And you need to sleep it off.”

He had helped her to her feet then and supported her back to their room, leaving the Nannies to get us ready for bed. 

The next morning Mother made no indication that she remembered what she had told me.

Five years have passed since then. Five very short years, that seemed to fly by in a flash. In these five years my sister and I have only grown closer. If you saw me, it was not long before you saw her. 

But, like all siblings, no matter how close we are we still have fights. 

Small fights. Big fights. Fights about stupid things. Fights about important things. Fights that lasted a few minutes. Fights that lasted a week. 

But we always make up, no matter what. 

It has been 8 days since Isabella and I have spoken. 8 days of fighting. And while this is our longest fight by only one day, it is still one day longer than usual and I have begun to grow antsy. 

Today also just so happens to be Isabella’s wedding day, and the whole reason we are fighting. 

Isabella says she is marrying for love, as father said he all wishes us to do. But I know better. Isabella is marrying because she believes it will please father to marry this boy, Merek, because his father is the second wealthiest man in town (second only to father himself).

She told me this in secret. Made me swore not to tell father, but swearing not to tell father does not mean I can’t try to convince her to tell him herself. 

She says she won’t tell father because then he will force her to stop the marriage. As if that is not the whole point of me wanting her to tell him. 

I stop to look in the mirror before exiting my room. I know if I even have a hair out of place Isabella will have my head. If mother does take it first. 

Today I will be walking my sister down the ‘aisle’ in place of my father, who is now so old he can barely make it down the stairs with his walker. 

And the aisle? Not even truly an aisle. Isabella wanted her wedding to be perfect and apparently her perfect wedding is started by her walking out the door and then descending the stairs to the ceremony that was once our front yard.

There’s a knock on my door and I jump, whipping around to open it but Isabella opens it for me. She pokes her head inside. “Are you ready?”

I nod quickly, and she grabs me by the wrist and drags me down the hallway. 

“Stand here.” She commands, positioning me until I stand just right, then retaking her place next to me and looping her arm through mine. 

“You shouldn’t be marrying him.”

“Shut up.”

“He’s a horrible person, Iz.”

“Shut up, right now, Aldwin I swear to God.”

“He smells. Like alcohol and fake wood.” I mutter, so just she can hear. When that doesn’t get a response, I try again. “He drinks worse than mom and only wants you for our money.” She shoots me a warning look but I push on. “He’s traditional. He’ll expect you to be a stay at home wife.”

The music starts, and she nudges me subtly with her elbow to get me to start moving out the doorway in time with her and the music. 

“He wants to be an account, Iz, who voluntarily wants to be an account except someone who is truly evil to their core. Like Merek.”

“God, Aldwin!” She yells, causing some of the attendees sitting close enough to hear her in the front yard to gasp. “If you are so against me marrying him, I will walk myself down these stairs.” She rips her arm out of my grasp and takes the first step. 

I reach for her, but she pulls away again. 

How childish she is being, in front of all these people. I can feel the blood rush to my cheeks from embarrassment, but then in a split second she is falling. 

I can only watch as she tumbles down the stairs, rolling to a stop at the bottom.

There are gasps and shrieks, and someone who sounds an awful lot like Merek yells, “Get out of my way!”

I reach her first, flinging myself to my knees beside her. Instantly my suit pants become wet with the blood pooling under her head and across the stone pavers. 

“Iz! Isabella!” I touch her neck, at her pulse point. Nothing. 

I grab her wrist and fumble for the pulse there as I lean down to bring an ear to her chest. No pulse. No heartbeat. Her chest doesn't rise. I shake her, gently. Nothing. No reaction. Not even a flutter of her eyes. 

“Do you know CPR?”

I ignore the person asking me. Why is CPR important right now? My sister is dying.

“Aldwin do you know CPR I think we’re supposed to do CPR-”

“Shut up Merek!” I roar, lifting my sister's head and scooting closer to her till her head is on my thighs. 

I can feel myself beginning to hyperventilate but it’s like it’s not happening to me. 

My sister is dead. It’s my fault. My sister is dead. I try to take a deep breath, try to breath but I can’t. I’m choking. Why can’t I breathe?! Am I dying? My heart is pounding, and I can hear the blood pumping in my ears. It’s the only thing I can hear. 

I think I’m dying. 

People are yelling, and moving in closer and I try to tell them to back up. Isabella needs room to breathe. I need room to breathe. 

Suddenly everything falls quiet. No one is yelling, whoever was crying and shrieking has stopped. My blood has stopped pumping. I think my heart has even stopped beating. 

Then I hear it, in the back of my mind like a whisper. 

The blood of your first born daughter will be on the hands of your first born son.

I look pull my hands away from where they cup the sides of Isabella’s cooling face. 

They’re smeared crimson. 

If only we had believed Grandma Ada.