Blood is Thick
This is a story for my Creative Writing portfolio. Warning: This story involves the relationship between two boys.
Blood is Thick
Evelyn and Paul sat in the clearing in the woods, their twin backs pressed against a tall oak tree. A clear azure sky stretched above them and the treetops swayed slightly in the breeze. The boys had been talking for a long time and had now lapsed into a comfortable silence.
“We should become blood brothers, Paul.”
“What?” Paul answered lazily.
“Blood brothers. I read about it once. I make a cut in my arm and you make a cut in yours. We press our arms together and the blood bonds us as brothers, forever.”
Paul looked into Evelyn’s piercing green eyes. Evelyn had mentioned this strange ritual with a seriousness that seemed to hint at more than just the spilling of blood. Curious, Paul agreed.
“All right. You got a knife?”
Evelyn pulled from his pocket a shiny silver pocketknife. Emblazed on it was his family name, Lancôme, in fancy cursive letters. Evelyn’s long fingers opened the knife to reveal a blade that looked new and unused. Paul watched carefully as Evelyn pulled up the sleeve of his expensive linen shirt and lowered the blade into his arm. He performed the action without a trace of discomfort and watched calmly as the bright red blood ran down his arm.
“Your turn,” he said to Paul, handing him the bloodied knife. Paul suddenly felt apprehensive, but he could not refuse the knife while Evelyn’s blood soiled his clothes. Swallowing his fear, Paul rolled up the sleeves of his old flannel shirt and held the knife tightly in his calloused hand. Paul looked away as he sank the blade into the skin of his arm, wincing at the sharp pain the contact made. He felt the warm blood ooze out of the cut and drip unto the dirt. Paul placed the knife on the ground. It was then that he noticed how intently Evelyn had been watching him and the strange expression on his face.
“Let’s do it.” Evelyn said and Paul nodded as he brought his arm toward Evelyn’s. When the twin gashes collided, Paul was struck by epiphany.
This was unlike Evelyn. In fact, it seemed the exact opposite of something he would do. Paul had seen him before, averting the eyes of people at the blood drive. He had noted the way Evelyn would act when asked to give blood, the way he shuffled his feet and muttered a guilty, “I’d rather not.”
Then there was Evelyn’s ancestry. His father was the head of the Lancôme industry. Evelyn was fabulously wealthy, although he never acted as if it mattered. On his ceiling there was pinned a huge layout of his family tree. Traced in red was a line that connected Evelyn to the great Edgar Allen Poe. That tree had always made Paul feel inferior. He lived on a farm and the only family he knew was his grandparents and a few cousins. Paul was just a farm boy, but Evelyn’s blood was sacred.
As Paul looked into Evelyn’s intense stare, he noted a hint of fear at the edge of Evelyn’s eyes. It was then that Paul knew what he should’ve known all along.
The boys’ gashes were still pressed together, when Paul leaned forward and kissed the shaky aristocrat. With the steady certainty of a destiny unraveling, Evelyn returned the kiss. Under the tall oak tree, below the azure sky, the blood of two boys dripped and mixed in the dry dirt. It was found on this spring day that the origin of their newly spilt blood was of significant unimportance.
Blood is Thick
Evelyn and Paul sat in the clearing in the woods, their twin backs pressed against a tall oak tree. A clear azure sky stretched above them and the treetops swayed slightly in the breeze. The boys had been talking for a long time and had now lapsed into a comfortable silence.
“We should become blood brothers, Paul.”
“What?” Paul answered lazily.
“Blood brothers. I read about it once. I make a cut in my arm and you make a cut in yours. We press our arms together and the blood bonds us as brothers, forever.”
Paul looked into Evelyn’s piercing green eyes. Evelyn had mentioned this strange ritual with a seriousness that seemed to hint at more than just the spilling of blood. Curious, Paul agreed.
“All right. You got a knife?”
Evelyn pulled from his pocket a shiny silver pocketknife. Emblazed on it was his family name, Lancôme, in fancy cursive letters. Evelyn’s long fingers opened the knife to reveal a blade that looked new and unused. Paul watched carefully as Evelyn pulled up the sleeve of his expensive linen shirt and lowered the blade into his arm. He performed the action without a trace of discomfort and watched calmly as the bright red blood ran down his arm.
“Your turn,” he said to Paul, handing him the bloodied knife. Paul suddenly felt apprehensive, but he could not refuse the knife while Evelyn’s blood soiled his clothes. Swallowing his fear, Paul rolled up the sleeves of his old flannel shirt and held the knife tightly in his calloused hand. Paul looked away as he sank the blade into the skin of his arm, wincing at the sharp pain the contact made. He felt the warm blood ooze out of the cut and drip unto the dirt. Paul placed the knife on the ground. It was then that he noticed how intently Evelyn had been watching him and the strange expression on his face.
“Let’s do it.” Evelyn said and Paul nodded as he brought his arm toward Evelyn’s. When the twin gashes collided, Paul was struck by epiphany.
This was unlike Evelyn. In fact, it seemed the exact opposite of something he would do. Paul had seen him before, averting the eyes of people at the blood drive. He had noted the way Evelyn would act when asked to give blood, the way he shuffled his feet and muttered a guilty, “I’d rather not.”
Then there was Evelyn’s ancestry. His father was the head of the Lancôme industry. Evelyn was fabulously wealthy, although he never acted as if it mattered. On his ceiling there was pinned a huge layout of his family tree. Traced in red was a line that connected Evelyn to the great Edgar Allen Poe. That tree had always made Paul feel inferior. He lived on a farm and the only family he knew was his grandparents and a few cousins. Paul was just a farm boy, but Evelyn’s blood was sacred.
As Paul looked into Evelyn’s intense stare, he noted a hint of fear at the edge of Evelyn’s eyes. It was then that Paul knew what he should’ve known all along.
The boys’ gashes were still pressed together, when Paul leaned forward and kissed the shaky aristocrat. With the steady certainty of a destiny unraveling, Evelyn returned the kiss. Under the tall oak tree, below the azure sky, the blood of two boys dripped and mixed in the dry dirt. It was found on this spring day that the origin of their newly spilt blood was of significant unimportance.