Shadows of the Bloodline

By Francis Figueroa

 Alexandria’s quiet demeanor had always terrified her father. He recalled the child’s 6th birthday party and how, despite the grandeur and jovial atmosphere of the event, she had stood in a corner with her favorite stuffed bunny for the entirety of the celebration. William extended some grace to the unsettling behavior; After all, she was merely a child with no concept of proper etiquette. Yet, it immensely bothered him that his spawn wasn’t “normal” and shunned any sort of social interaction with their esteemed guests.

“What a disgrace she has become,” he murmured to his newlywed wife as they stood over the balustrade of their grand staircase, akin to rulers casting their gaze upon their subjects, the corrupt New Orleans elite.

“Pray tell, William, are you certain she shares your blood?” The beautiful yet cruel blonde whispered the snide remark right into her husband's ear. 

“ Indeed, there are moments I fervently wish she were not my own;  it would spare my bloodline from the stain of her existence,” he retorted, his face contorted with evident disgust.

“You are a wicked man!” she gasped, a playful yet cutting tone in her voice as she lightly struck his chest.

“ Well, Darling, I have to go see about the party,” she replied, pressing a fleeting kiss to his lips before gliding away to mingle with the rest of the elite.

Now, left with the suffocating silence of his solitude, William raised his glass to his lips, savoring his final sip of Bordeaux, its crimson hue glinting like blood in the candlelight. As the bitter liquid slid down his throat, his eyes fell to Alexandria, still lurking in her corner, clutching that dammed bunny as though she was trying to pretend the world around her didn’t exist.


A volatile mix of alcohol, anger, and festering shame surged through him. His grip on the empty glass tightened, knuckles whitening with suppressed rage. Stumbling forward, unsteady and seething, William made his way toward his daughter, the weight of his disappointment bearing down on every sluggish step.

“Look at you,” he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt as he approached her. 

“Always cowering in the shadows, like a grotesque little creature, too feeble to face the world. What a pitiful display of weakness.”

Alexandria flinched at his words, her grip on the stuffed bunny tightening. The soft fabric offered little comfort as her father’s biting insults sliced through the air, each syllable heavy with malice.


“You embarrass me,” William continued, his breath hot with the sharp tang of alcohol. “Standing there like some broken doll, unable to even greet the guests properly. What kind of daughter are you?”

He stepped closer, looming over her small frame, his shadow swallowing the dim light that flickered from the chandelier above. His face was twisted in frustration, the weight of his own failure pressing on his chest. He was no longer looking at his daughter but at the embodiment of everything he despised about himself—his mistakes, inadequacies, and failures as a father.

“Answer me!” he barked, his voice rising.

Without warning, Alexandria’s hand shot out, gripping his wrist with surprising strength. William’s eyes widened in shock as her tiny, cold fingers dug into his skin, her nails sharp enough to break through the surface. Blood welled up almost immediately, a thin crimson line tracing her nails as she dragged them across his flesh.


He gasped, more from the shock of her sudden aggression than from the pain, and yanked his hand back. “What the hell—!”

But Alexandria didn’t recoil. Instead, she stood transfixed, her eyes widening as she stared at the blood trickling from his wrist. Her breathing slowed, her chest rising and falling with an eerie calmness as though the sight of it had awakened something in her.


“You’re bleeding…” she whispered, her voice so soft it was barely audible. Her eyes gleamed with a strange intensity, a morbid curiosity dancing in the depths of her gaze. She raised her fingers to her lips, hovering them over the small streak of blood that had transferred to her fingertips.


William staggered back, clutching his wrist, his mind struggling to process what had just happened. “What… what are you doing?” he stammered, his voice faltering for the first time in years.


She lifted her hand, staring at the blood with fascination, her lips parting ever so slightly as if she could taste the very essence of it in the air.


“Does it hurt, Father?” she asked, her voice oddly serene. “It’s just blood, isn’t it? It’s just… blood,” she repeated once more as if she was stuck in a trance.


His stomach churned, a wave of nausea rising in him as he saw something dark and unsettling bloom in her eyes. There was no fear, no remorse—just an unnatural fascination.


“You’re… you’re sick,” he managed to choke out, his voice trembling as he backed away from her. “What is wrong with you?”


Alexandria looked up, meeting his gaze with an unnerving calmness. “Perhaps it’s not sickness at all,” she said softly, almost as if speaking to herself. “Perhaps it’s truth. The blood… it shows everything, doesn’t it? It shows who we really are.”


William felt a shiver crawl down his spine, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. This was no longer the child he thought he knew—something had changed. Something had awakened within her.


Suddenly, the room felt smaller, the walls closing in as he stumbled back toward the staircase. His heart pounded in his chest, not just from the pain of his wound but from the creeping fear that he was no longer in control. That whatever darkness had been lying dormant in his daughter had now come to life.

Comments

Post a Comment

Check it out!

ENC1102 INFORMATIVE REPORT

By Francis Figueroa
Image
 Does NSFW or Explicit Material Have a Negative Effect on The Brain and Social Development? Francis D. Figueroa Miami-Dade College ENC1102                                               AUDIENCE PURPOSE STANCE The audience for my Informative report is other Seniors at Miami Senior High School who are interested in learning more about the effects of the consumption of explicit material on the brain and social development. The purpose of my report is to inform other individuals about the effects of pornography consumption on the brain and social development. My stance on this topic is neutral. I am merely informing my audience about a particular topic, not creating an argument for a specific side.           ...
Read more

Fading Gold

By Francis Figueroa
  Loving Eve was always easy. From the start, it was as if Cara had found her missing piece. Some called it sandbox love; others called it an obsession. To her, they were just two souls who found each other in a cold, harsh world. "Hey, if we were stuck on an island with no way out, would you eat me?" Eve said half-jokingly, with a playful glint in her eye while assessing her body in the mirror.  "What the hell are you talking about, Eve?" Cara said, used to her weird questions.   "I would. Eat you. I mean." Eve said as she looked behind her shoulder.  "You're so cracked, you know." Cara retorted while standing up from her best friend's bed and walking around her childhood bedroom.  "Oh, come on, I was only joking, Cara."  Eve Trailed off before fixing her sleek, matted hair for the hundredth time.  "Only you can get away with joking about cannibalism." Cara rolled her eyes— a shiny heart-shaped necklace with the inscr...
Read more

Rain-soaked Reverie

By Francis Figueroa
  The smell of freshly cooked Japanese food filled my lungs as I walked by the narrow alleyways of Amsterdam with an umbrella in hand. The scent faded as more and more rain droplets began to fall, and the smell of wet cobblestone took its place. I stopped in my tracks, taking in the unfamiliar stores I would never find back home.  “ I should be happier. It’s Christmas season, and I’m lucky enough to be in one of the most amazing places in the world.” I thought to myself, but the empty feeling settled in my stomach. It had been there since I landed, but I decided to lose myself in the bustle of the city. Snippets of conversations floated around, and couples walked around me hand in hand. The sight of them reminded me of how hollow I felt.  I spotted a happy couple who walked so close to each other that it felt like if one of them moved for just a bit, the small world they seemed to have created under their small red umbrella would crumble. My hand tightened around the h...
Read more

A Love Letter to Jo March

By Francis Figueroa
Dear Joe March, Thank you for awakening the writer within me.   I received a copy of Little Women when I was about thirteen years old. At the time, writing was nothing more than a tool to express my musings about my family, friendships, and ever-changing emotions. But when I traced the white pages of your world- dare I say your very own life—I was fascinated by your fiery spirit and determined disposition. Seeing a young girl be inquisitive and passionate about something as amazing as writing made me want to pick up the pen and paper and start writing stories, not for academic purposes, but for myself. Admittedly, at the time, I did not feel I could ever write stories and create complex characters and worlds. But as I kept exploring your world through the pages of Louisa May Alcott's words, I felt inspired by your inner drive to follow your dreams of becoming a writer all the way to New York. I saw your worries, your doubts, and your fears test your spirit,...
Read more

My Philosophy of Writing

By Francis Figueroa
 Francis Figueroa Dr. Shawn DeNight ENC 1101 18 December, 2024 Introduction       The power of writing lies in its ability to transform intangible thoughts into tangible forms, creating a bridge between the inner self and the outside world. For me, writing is not just a skill but a journey—a process of exploration and modification that reveals the depths of human expression. From messy first drafts to the collaborative insights gained through peer reviews, each step in the writing process holds the potential to shape raw ideas into impactful works of writing. Through the teachings of writers like Anne Lamott, educators like Pirette McKamey, and all of my current and previous english teachers, I’ve come to understand that writing is both a personal and communal act that thrives on practice, reflection, and the courage to embrace imperfection. My philosophy of writing explores how the practices of drafting, revising, and collaborative feedback illuminate the pr...
Read more

Temporary

By Francis Figueroa
  Six letters, the same name  Six letters, a different face  The way his eyes glimmered I thought maybe it was love  but what was lurking beneath was only lust  When you saw me, did you notice my face? When you felt my touch,  Could you feel my love?  My soft intentions? The whispers of sweet nothings fill the air  I cling to your words  Like you cling to my skin   I look into your eyes  In search of something more  not a person, but a warm body  temporary company  someone to be discarded  used and forgotten Was it my innocent gaze?  The way my lips parted?  Or the way I said your name?
Read more

November's Ghost

By Francis Figueroa
  The crisp fall air filled my lungs as I walked  near the small open  window in our room. The world outside the window seemed peaceful and unmoving, and for a second it felt as if I could breathe again. A small shuffle near the bed snapped me back to reality, it was Raymond, stretching out his hands, with eyes half open, it was clear that he was just waking up. “Morning Cecil” Raymond said, his voice trailing off  as he got up to go to the bathroom.  “ I’m going down to make breakfast in a little bit” I said as I finished making the bed. As I walked out of the into the hallway, the house seemed empty and lifeless, an empty shell of what it once was. On my way down the stairs I noticed that Ronan’s  room was half open, as if it was waiting for him to come back.  “ Raymond must’ve gone in and forgotten to close the door” “ he always does this when he comes home drunk.”  I thought.  I recalled the first time I caught him in there, his muffled...
Read more

Begin Again

By Francis Figueroa
 The brick-laden paradise that was New Greenwich overtook my vision. For the first time in a long time, I had butterflies in my stomach; I was excited to see what the future awaited. I had just graduated from college; anything could happen. I closed the door to my apartment and took in the summertime —the bustle of the city hummed with possibility. I looked down at my phone, and the picture of a curly-headed girl and a tall boy with a goofy grin stared back at me. A familiar pang settled in my chest. June’s hair flew all over the place after Mom snapped the picture. A bitter-sweet feeling came over me as I remembered that summer’s day, the day I lost my first love and my best friend. I turned off my phone and kept walking down the concrete sidewalks of New Greenwich. The shadows of the trees formed the beautiful shapes of the leaves. I loved New York in September. The lack of tourists, the summer heat, and the people walking out and about gave the city a quiet life that you just ca...
Read more

Soft intentions, Sharp Goodbyes.

By Francis Figueroa
Tell me- was I ever more than just a fleeting thought? A passing desire?  A momentary indulgence in an afternoon already forgotten. I traced the constellations on your skin,  let my fingertips linger in the hollow of your throat, where your pulse beats steadily- unshaken, unbothered, untouched by me. You kissed me like a promise I watched the door close behind you, watched my reflection in the window, wondering if I had only imagined that, for a moment, you held me like I was something to be kept. But I was never meant to be kept, was I?
Read more