The Weight of Blood

by Tiffany D. Jackson

The earthquake had cracked her glasses, and she could barely see without them. But something told her that it wasn’t an earthquake at all. It felt too targeted, like it had happened under her feet and nowhere else. The thought made her want to run home faster, as if something ugly, inky black was chasing her down the hall. But as she veered around the corner, she slammed into a chest made of marble.

In the deepest parts of her, she had always known that something dark lay inside her, feral and dangerous. Something feverish and desperate to show itself.

You, my child, were created in a hurricane, leaving destruction in your wake. You, as they say, are a storm with skin. Death and rebirth will follow you everywhere. How can one man who knows nothing of the weight of blood tame you? For wherever you go, there you are.

Your bloodline was marinated in rage. There will be pain in carrying this dark secret. A pain you must endure for others and for yourself. This sickly power you hold without hands will eventually burn until you no longer can hide it. You must learn to control it. Or it will control you. But be not a doormat. You can ease the pain by leaving all that you know. Become so drunk on life and love that it blinds you to the hate threatening to drown you. Chew on grief for breakfast, devour aches for lunch, inhale life’s acid, let it burn the costume he has forced upon you.

Belief is a source of energy that holds space for consciousness.