Chapter 34
The failed blood sibling episode was one of the first videos we ever took down.
It fell within our criteria of obscene. Although, it is a public discourtesy to obscure any information, so we had to do a shitload of covering our tracks to avoid any public outrage.
Only on special occasions and this was a very special occasion.
Like that overwhelming bliss that you get, that optimism that only exists within an infant’s head, when you first start dating somebody and everything clicks, I expected that feeling to one day return and never leave again, and that’s when I’d know I’d made it. Instead of asking what “made it” means, I should have been asking “made what?”
If you did get to see, it was the highest viewed video in the Ritual Fail category by the end of its first day, and by the next morning it was the highest overall, but before lunchtime it was eradicated from the internet. Butler just knows how to do that. I have this weird feeling he’s just AI that’s good at chatting with a very sophisticated voice box.
When the was up you would have seen Joselyn reading from the book during setup, the letters LIVE flashing red, strobing the same pace you gulp water when you’re thirsty. And as the crew was silent on the set she calls Morgen over. She says, “This involves you Misses Morgen.”
She had a weird inflection on “Misses” that made me uncomfortable. Was she really so cruel she was going to rub it in her face? I looked away to not confirm my beliefs, but still, I could feel her take offense to it. Joselyn rubbing it in her face that she was not married to me because our souls are not intertwined, and there’s no marriage if the souls don’t marry first. They just sort of click one day, like accidentally popping your wrist.
It was painfully silent on set. The trot of Morgen’s boots were absent, she was barefoot and the lightness of her step made my heart break worse for what’s about to happen. And I still don’t know if these are my thoughts, but I knew we had to and that made it easier.
Joselyn carries the ritual book with one hand and sets it on the side table next to me. Flips it open and underlines the first few lines with her finger. The page is titled IMPIA LIBERATIO ANIMAE ALTERIUS written in Bastarda cursive.
She asks Morgen to remove her shirt, which she does gladly. She makes a chummy smile to everyone after the request and everyone smiles back, in a way that looks equally as forced. She’s been much nicer since Joselyn officially proclaimed herself as acting Arto-supremo claiming they were her grandfather’s orders. There’s nothing protecting her anymore.
Joselyn grabs Morgen’s cold tender bicep and pulls her close and pinches the skin hard enough to make Morgen wince. Then Joselyn lifts it to touch her bicep and positions them to be facing opposite ways until their shoulders touch, clasping each other’s hands above their heads.
Morgen’s microscopic shivers made the floor ripple.
Joselyn quickly pulled a cursed kukri blade and ran under her own arm pit pressed its sharp edge to Morgen’s bicep, and Morgen tries to pull away, so Joselyn holds her hand tighter to stop her from pulling away long enough to pull the blade down and applying more pressure as she did. A slice, if done correctly should be shaped like a triangle opening up.
Joselyn recites an incantation that did not match what was on the page. Morgen tried to pull away from Joselyn’s hand that’s holding her arm up, keeping the severed artery open while it gushes blood. A pool on the floor starts to appear as Morgen begins screaming, crying, and dancing in it.
Joselyn’s eyes glowed vibrant neon pink. Summoning from the land of orange sunflowers and pink petals. It sounded like Ancient Greek.
No one on the filming crew reacted, they were still quiet on set. As if this was part of the script. Everyone kept a stoic face and it reminded me of the first night I met Morgen.
She screams and slips in her own blood while no one reacts but watches. She knows no one is coming to help.
Morgen tries to crawl and her hand slips out from under her and she smacks her chin on the floor. She gives up, rolls over, and starts screaming at the ceiling. Screaming at her life.
It wasn’t over quickly, but still felt sudden, long enough to notice she was painfully learning. Seeing her end and knowing this is ultimately what she was born for.
When she stops to take a breath and pants a little from the dropping oxygen levels causing side effects like hypoxia, Joselyn stands over her head, then kneels behind it, and pets Morgen’s hair back. Morgen grabs one of Joselyn’s wrist’s and through a bouncing way of talking while crying says, “I don’t understand. I don’t understand. What is happening?”
“I know this isn’t fair, sweetie. This isn’t your fault.” Joselyn rubs tears away from Morgen’s cheek with her thumb. “But you are saving us all. By your death, my child shall live.”
“I don’t underst—I don’t, I don’t…”
“Shh. Don’t use this special time for stress.” Joselyn pets her into a calmed state of acceptance without understanding, blind faith. Morgen slowly rolls away her gaze, letting go of Joselyn’s eyes. Then she was still.
Joselyn says loud enough for the room to hear, “Prisca vel non, quaedam, iuramanta, non sunt tanti, praevaricationis.”
And we repeated the same phrase over and over, even I’d never heard it before. And Morgen’s became dull and soft pointed at the ceiling. I couldn’t tell whether she was dead or didn’t fight it, but when Joselyn placed the kukri at her throat and cut her so deep you could hear the cracking of the hyoid bone and the tearing of thyroid cartilage, Morgen didn’t twitch.
This was to save our baby from Joselyn’s contract. That any child born by Joselyn must be offered to Hans, sacrificed. And she reversed her curse by sacrificing his kin. The spiritual binds made centuries ago between a woman with magick and a man with wealth were finally dissolved.
In the news it’s stated that Morgen Arto was rushed to a hospital, recovered, and is resting at home. The truth is she walked into that cabin, but she did not walk out.
She flew out, through the chimney.
James Jacob Hatfield is a displaced engineer, a painter, and many other contradictions. His work has appeared in X-R-A-Y, Maudlin House, Vol. 1 Brooklyn, Barely South Review, Chaleur Magazine, Havik, and others. His ekphrasis poem “torrents of lahar, No. 36” was anthologized by the North Carolina Museum of Art. He is a Sterling Fellow and a Weymouth Fellow. He is the creator and curator of the Gemini Sessions Substack. He lives in Durham, NC.
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