Escape and Blood

Escape and Blood

The smooth cream coloured skin of her hand glowed ghostly pale in the light of the moon as she raised it and rapped sharply on the large oak door before her. She knew he was here. She had known for two weeks where he had run off to. But she had with-held the information; she didn't want him back, the weak little runaway. Unfortunately, his father did, the idiot. He even organized a small search group, asking his pathetic friends at the Ministry to look around. It was really quite humiliating, and once she'd found out what he'd done, she had put a stop to it. Swiftly. He wouldn't be making that mistake again, she was sure. The idiot was a sheep when it truly came down to it... Yes. It was he who had the weakness. It certainly hadn't come from her. The fault was his, the way their first born child had turned out. Disappointing... Weak...

And afraid. But the fear, she knew, was inspired by her, and her alone. He would never admit to it, of course, never show it. Choosing to push it below an expression of indifference, or, more commonly, anger and bitterness. She had taught him well. But the fear was still there... and, perhaps, that had been her... error with him. Fear is control. Yet to allow oneself to be willingly submitted to it--if, of course, one has the ability to feel it--is shear stupidity. Running away, though, remains the most cowardly way out, and often, it doesn't provide a way out, at all. Although... facing down someone of more obvious strength than oneself is foolhardy, plain and simple.

Her son had potential, it was true. He could have been perfect--or nearly so. But no longer. His filthy little friends countered everything she'd taught him. Arguing until he was confused, until he believed them. The vile little betrayer. Shame of her flesh! The ignorant little blood traitor was so enamored with his small friends and their views, he was beginning to question even his own strengths. His confusion and soon to be mistrust of the world around him, would follow him. She knew him better than he, himself, did, and hopefully he'd discover her words rang true when he had led a life much worse than the one she could have given. If he does not... then, perhaps, he is as strong as she.

Raising her hand once more, she knocked briskly on the door until she could hear footsteps in the hall behind it. Quickly, she leaned her son's forgotten toy--his favorite broomstick, no less--against the wood and disappeared into the silent night without a backward glance.

Cast in the deepened shadows out of the moon's rays, the defilement of the smooth dark wood was not in the slightest notable. At least, not until the door was swung open silently and the sleek object fell away from the fame, its bodice in full, pale light. A cool breeze picked up just then as the words revealed themselves, permanently carved, warning, haunting:

'You cannot not escape your own blood.'

Copyright 2004