Blood Sisters

We hadn’t planned to do it, but once we made up our minds we knew it had to get it done before night fell and we were sequestered to our respective homes.  In an effort to get away from the others, we had climbed onto the roof of the old shed in the far corner of our property, the one we used as a kennel. The tar paper roof was warm from the Texas sun and the smell of honeysuckle and unwashed dog mingled with each other as we sat close together, heads almost touching, anxious to carry out our plan.  

I  don’t remember Karen actually volunteering to go first, but it makes sense that she would. Her courage and bravado were what I loved most about her, and what I saw so little of in myself.  My heart beat a little faster as she picked up the large thorn we had carefully removed from the vines that grew in tangles down by the pond. The painstaking care we had taken not to get stuck by the menacing brambles now seems absurd considering our intent, but that irony was lost on our nine year old selves.  We were both uncharacteristically silent while we stared at our tool of choice. As I reached out one timid finger to feel its spiky end, Karen quite suddenly thrust it into her thumb with one hard, deep plunge. She pulled it away and I leaned in even closer, looking for the drop of blood we both expected to see.  It was there, bubbled on the surface of her dark skin. It was a perfect drop, deep red and shining.

“Hurry,” she said, ”Do it quick or mine will dry up.”

Without hesitating I reached for the outstretched thorn and, closing my eyes, rammed it into the flat part of my thumb.  The pain jolted through me, much like a shot from the doctor, but to my surprise when I looked down, my thumb was clean, not a drop of blood on it.  Karen looked irritated.

“You didn’t do it hard enough, Heather,” she said, “Let me try.”

“No!” I said, somewhat louder than I intended, “I can do it.”

Again and again I poked, prodded and jabbed my thumb, as well as various other fingers,  but to no avail. As painful as all this was, for whatever reason, my digits firmly refused to bleed.   Karen grew increasingly annoyed as she watched my failed attempts, all the while cradling her own thumb, successfully producing blood like a tiny leaky faucet.

“Let’s just forget it,” she said at last, “You’re never going to bleed.  How weird.”

Desperate not to disappoint her and determined not to let this opportunity slip away, I started mentally brainstorming assorted ways to make myself bleed.  

“I know what I can do,” I said with confidence as the perfect idea came to me, “I’ll be right back, just don’t leave and please try to keep bleeding.”  I didn’t wait for a reply as I slid feet first off the roof, leaped onto the grass and began to run across the field towards my house, blonde pigtails flying, yapping puppies at my heels.  

I knew that going in the front door this time of day would lead to too many questions, so I headed instead towards the garage which was usually left propped open with a cinder block.  We did this to let the cats go in and out, but it was also just enough space for a small girl to scramble under, should the need arise. The inside seemed darker than it really was after the brightness outside, but I made my way easily toward the door that led into our unfinished basement, weaving expertly between boxes still unpacked from our move to my step dad’s house last year.  I knew there was next to no chance that anyone would be downstairs, but I still moved stealthily. It had taken us most of the morning to ditch the little ones, and the last thing I needed was to have to waste precious time doing that again. As long as Kim was telling the truth about hiding her razor in Paul’s Japanese grill, there would be no problem getting what I needed and getting out.  

The dark green, egg shaped grill was easy to spot, but it took me a while make my way to it through all the stuff that blocked my path.  Using both hands to lift the heavy lid, I was rewarded for my efforts by the sight of a pink and white razor along with several other pieces of my teenage sister’s contraband, that I made a mental note to come back later and investigate.  After snatching the razor and letting the lid fall closed with a regrettable bang, I flew out of the basement, through the garage and under the door. In no time, I was heaving myself back up on the roof where Karen now laid, her long silky hair spilled out around her like a black pool of ink.

“You sure took long enough,” she said, sitting up and looking at me accusingly, “I almost fell asleep, and I stopped bleeding an hour ago.”

“That wasn’t even close to an hour,” I said, “And anyway, I got the perfect thing to cut myself with.”  I held out the razor triumphantly and was pleased to see her look impressed.

“Great!  Maybe if I just squeeze my thumb it will start up again,“ she said and then shot me a significant glance as she added, “I  happen to bleed very easily.”

She squeezed and did indeed begin to bleed again while I studied the razor in order to find the best means of attack.  I knew my mom always said not to touch them because you could cut yourself, but looking at it closely I didn’t really see how.  The silver blades were flat and dull and snugly surrounded on all sides by pink plastic. There was nothing sticking out to prick myself with so I decided the best course of action would be to slide my thumb against the blade.  Unlike with the thorn, I felt absolutely no pain, but just like the thorn, I also did not bleed. Karen pushed closer and gave an exasperated sigh. I knew that if this didn’t work my one chance to be her blood sister and bonded for life would be gone, so I put all trepidation aside and attacked my thumb like I meant it.  Over and over I rigorously ran the blade across my pale skin, determined to get results. After a time I pulled the razor away. Karen and I both watched in joy, which quickly turned to horror, as the blood began to leak, then pour, then gush, from my lacerated thumb.

The blood stains on the roof lasted as long as the shed did, and the scars faded in time, yet I still think back to that moment.  I think back not of my long lost best friend and the coveted blood sharing ceremony that never happened that day; what I think of is simply this. The things in life that cut the deepest, that cause the most damage, are often the ones that you don’t realize are hurting you at the time.

Reviews

[Samuel Dickens]

Could this be true or partly true? It's exactly the kind of thing my friends and I did when we were kids. Perhaps attentive guardian angels kept us from death, because it seems miraculous that some of us survived. A great and enjoyable story.

[Melissa]

Yes, this is partly true. Nowadays kids wouldn't be left alone long enough to get into that kind of mischief, but it made us who we are today. Thank you for the feedback!

[wordman]

blood sisters forever,lol,i can remember this great tradition of older times

[Serendipity Planet]

Amazing story , I couldn't stop reading
Beautiful

[Melissa]

Thanks so much for taking the time to leave your kind words.

[Peter Rogerson]

Beautiful tension in the search for blood. Excellent description and vocabulary. In short, I enjoyed reading it. And the final paragraph taught me that the icing on a cake may taste bitter...

[Melissa]

Thanks so much for your thoughtful review.