I resisted the urge for years, hoping the curse had skipped a generation and I’d be spared the gruesome reality that I was indeed the spawn of my father. He disgusts me with his morbid eating habits while I’m spooning down ordinary cereal. But today is different. Today I yearn to dip my fingers into his mug of blood and coat my tongue with the coppery taste. I reach out my hand, but Father slaps it away.
“Not mine, laddie.” He hands me a knife. “Yours.”
Taking the knife, I prick my finger and lick the blood.
I taste good.
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