Blood Line

Snow gathers on my head, tipping onto my face and shoulders. I slip through the back living room window that reveals a high ceiling with darkness shrouding the corners. Warm hazy light emanates from the neon-blue Christmas tree. The tree dangles apples, rubies, and crystal stars. I punch one, smashing it onto the thick rug.
The Sorensons have gone for two days. No mistakes this time, just reds and blacks, howling and twisting like fireworks.
The glass coffee-table reflects fairy lights in a blurry rainbow. I take a seat on the cloth couch, sinking deeply into its embrace. The TV explodes into life, shapes moulding and flickering, Coke, L’Oreal, Calvin Klein. Smooth voices, sexy girls.
The painting on the wall by the grand piano reminds me of my father, with his sloping boxer’s chin, long neck, and sad overhanging brow. He would say to me, menacingly, ‘You’re just like your Nan.’
Look at me old man; fag stained fingers, two day old beard, and whiskey breath like chewing fire. Am I you? Did you make me?
I pull the painting down from the wall leaving square sun lines, a window revealing a yellow horizon. I grab a ball of light from the tree, and smash it with my Foot of Revenge onto his face. I want to light things up. Glorious flames like words in a madman’s mind, flickering and flashing all over the place.
I inch over to the ornate mantelpiece, eyes closed, heart thumping, hands waving in front of me like treading water. With a long sweeping movement of my arms I launch the cloudy photos of the happy family, onto the soft floor. Carefully I peek out of my wrinkled lids and check the ledge for the portraits. I only see myself in the mirror, two-dimensional. Handsome devil though, behind the foul façade, ravaged face, bruised smile.
The sad tree now leans to one side, coloured stars ready to fly, needles splashed across protective plastic (she was found dead, wrapped in plastic), and the presents flickering in his cigarette flame attract my eye and I tell myself no, not yours, some things are sacred like when Big Bad Bro ripped Cally from my hands one afternoon and dashed into the park across the street and set him alight for everyone to see, dead, dead, dead. He had it coming, bro said. I cried for weeks as if my parents had died. I hid in the closet, face wrapped in dangling coats like a tiny rainforest.
I walk into the kitchen, thinking food, but really thinking, try to forget. The kitchen springs into life with sheer lights illuminating every shadow. No place to hide. I swipe a cling-film wrapped leg of lamb from the fridge and dump it on the bread board.
Knives are arranged by length on the countertop by the windows, looking out onto the back garden. Years ago I took a knife and sliced my sister’s arm, letting her blood run. Then I cut my own arm and tried to pour my blood into her. Because I knew; somehow, mine was tainted and wrong. I needed rid of it, as if it was mercury. She was silent and scared for a while, as if adjusting and trying to understand. Then she staggered and moaned like a burnt child. The house exploded with rage and punishment. All forces against me.
They sat me down in the black kitchen, rubbish bin leaking, stinking the room. Mum quietly sobbing, Big Bro, Little Sis and mad Dad in a circle around me. Looming.
Things had calmed down, but Dad’s eyes were still raging. ‘Boy,’ he said, ‘what you have done has shown us, confirmed, what we always expected. It’s that you are bad. No, not just bad… evil. There is darkness in you that we can’t control. It was the same with your Gran when she was young. She spoke with babbling words and screamed all night, every night. It is in you and you can’t escape it.’

No keys for the garden so I smash the glass. It explodes like cold breath. Birds pitter-patter along branches and roofs. The grass is soft. Try and lay back awhile, I tell myself. Yellow tipped leaves, black earth, spongy, like flesh.
I lift myself quickly from the damp grass, trying to shake off my thoughts, and wipe my jeans with a slightly bloodied hand. My brown leather shoes have gathered strands of grass and beads of water. I go inside and jog up the stretched staircase that turns back on itself onto the first floor landing. I’ve soiled the cream carpet with smeared black mud.
I open the Master bedroom door. Darkness slowly creeps back and unveils a silk double bed and tall lamps shooting yellow light. The finely engraved cross above the bed tilts forwards as if ready to fall onto the spread and He holds a light smile, knowing, unconcerned by His pain.
‘You tell my why, why the bad blood. Can I cut my way out, kill the curse. Can I burn it?’
He sits on edge of the bed; robe tight, sandals clean, hair matted. He breathes softly. ‘Yes,’ He says, ‘use fire to trample and burn chaos into the blood of the city.’ He looks at me profound and serious.
The closet across from the king-size bed, slides open like electric doors, and lights flicker on one by one, revealing furs and sequins. The carpet is forgiving and wraps around my feet. Like my little closet, where I played with a small spider, carelessly weaving its fine threads. Gradually the patterns emerge, the shape revealed, it was always there.
Breathing, in a corner behind a rotten apple-green dress two bodies writhe and wriggle. Sweat stains their clothes and falls in sticky droplets onto the white carpet. ‘Go find your Gran, boy.’
I slam the closet doors shut. I take a seat in the corner of the bedroom on an old mahogany rocking chair, neatly bound except for a few tufts of weave poking out like a worn toothbrush. I sit awkwardly with my head in my hands trying not to rock. The sharp yellow room looks immaculate, but on the window ledge is fine black dust in a snaking line.
‘Come sit with your mother on the bed. Come on. Why are you so sad? I know things make little sense but you must get used to it. I’m sorry to say that this is life. Don’t take what your father says too much to heart. He means well. It’s not that bad, is it? You were always a melancholy child though. Your grandma was like that. Come here.’
She lies under the duvet, rippling like water rapids, one knee propped up and her head resting calmly on the head board. Auburn hair is fanned out across the pale blue pillows. She pats the bed.
Blink. A twisted mess, smoke, teeth and tongues. Slurping and sniggering, pointing fingers.
Time to act.
I leave the bedroom, rocking chair swinging as if beckoning me back. Remember the good times, inject a bit of joy into proceedings.
James. He was a friend of mine and a partner. We took down three houses across North London. James had skills, I had the Need and we pillaged the city streets. He had eyes like burning forests. For a time the curse was hidden and I felt invincible. Always laughing, drinking all night on the curb outside his house. I only felt sad when looking in the mirror.
Then we went too far; everything crumbled and broke. Someone got caught amongst the wreckage. I couldn’t take the pain I caused. I thought of the families and friends and the waves of trauma. I had no more words, no more understanding. James left too, abroad to America, I think. He had money and a decent family and was cushioned back into a comfortable life. But I was different. It was then I realised why, why my curse.
In the next door bedroom there is a red and yellow Simpson’s poster in a picture frame. The lights reflect off the glass. I see me. I sit on the solid bed, surrounded by a million black eyes staring at me like points of light. There’s a relaxing blue theme seeping into my green veins. Time to face what was always coming.
The Lighter sparks into life heating a bow-tied teddy on the window seat amongst pillows, dinosaurs and cartoon books. With a violent woosh toys erupt (miss you Cally).
I take a seat back on the bed and wait to be engulfed. I look at the fire which reflects back me. The fire struggles but draws breath and grows, sounding like wailing trains. Sweaty nails slice and scrape my skin. I hold back groans.
‘1982, when it happened. It will happen to you too. That is her lot and yours,’ Dad said, leaning forward at me, glaring. ‘One day back from school, scoffing sweets, laughing and squealing we find silence in the house and smell of rotting animals. We tread carefully up the stairs, knowing something terrible has happened. We just knew. In the bathroom we see your Gran. Razors. Blood easing out from raw skin. Plastic lined floor to prevent a mess. Leaving nothing to chance. When your Grandpa found out he said, ‘She had it coming.’
Flames reach higher crawling across ceiling like a hand. Through smoke and pain I see the past biting at my heels, as it always has. I must give in to the wheel of fire that tramples everything and everyone. Isn’t all this; flames raging, burning face, sweat crawling, what I lived for, what was always mine? The blood in my hard thick veins, now showing like never before, tells me there is no choice.
A final stand; I project my mind of Terror. I see neighbourhoods fall like toddlers toppling; towns and cities collapse in an explosion of tears. I tried to fight. The fire as my weapon. Now it cloaks me like a murderous old friend.