Page 6 of Blood Queen
“Tomorrow, we hunt,” he says before turning and walking back inside. I drop to the ground and lie there, staring at the ceiling, wondering why in the hell my schooling consists of training for the apocalypse.
I didn’t start questioning anything until I turned thirteen. I never questioned what Papa taught until he started bringing home books for me to read. Books that taught me what school was like, what normal kids were like. Before that moment, I’d assumed that all kids were schooled like me.
I thought everyone’s life was like ours.
Hunting, gun safety, crossbow training, Krav Maga, pull-ups, sit-ups, squats, push-ups, and knife throwing. We worked on one skill a day until we completed the list and then went back to the beginning again. Rinse and repeat.
The only thing I questioned was my mother’s absence. To which I only ever got a terse, “She left us a long time ago, Kid.”
We grew our own food, hunted for meat. We played hide and seek so I could learn how to remain silent and still—for survival. He set up elaborate traps to hone my attention to detail and my ability to focus.
But those books he got me,thosechanged my world. They altered the very fabric of my being. The books made me realize our lives were unique. I asked Papa why I wasn’t in school like other kids. Why I didn’t have friends or parents like they did.Why we never saw the ocean, or traveled the world, or do any of the things I read about?
“You’re not like other kids, Kid. You’re special.” He’d grinned down at me but I didn’t like his answer.
“But why?” I’d asked.
“You just are. The skills I teach you serve a purpose. We’re living in an age of pesticides, of all-important capitalism, greed, four-bedroom houses, and Stepford wives. Greed and materialism have tarnished this country. We live humbly to keep us grounded. To keep us alert and alive, Kid. Every skill I teach you, you will need someday. And I mean every single one.”
“For what though? Why do I have to learn these things?” I whined.
He patted me on the head and grinned. “Because Kid, you’re special. You might be the most special kid alive.”
God, Papa was so irritating with his cryptic responses.
I’d been so infuriated that day. I’d stormed to my room and slammed the door. I’d laid on my bed and cried and sobbed until I fell asleep. I didn’t want to be special. I didn’t want Papa’s stupid tricks and tactics. I wanted to be normal. But normal was as useless as a wish blown across a dandelion.
I push off the dirt floor of the barn and pet the goat’s heads before I go inside.
Judging by the sky, it was nearing dinner time.
Dinner is rabbit with apple, parsnip, potato hash. It hits the spot.
Papa is a great cook, always has been, so he says. I clear the plates from the table and rinse them. It’s my job.
He cooks. I clean up.
It’s been this way for as long as I can remember. I wipe the dishes dry and set them in the drying rack.
“Kid,” Papa calls to me.
When I reach the living room Papa has the chess board all set up and waiting for us. I snag a pillow off the couch and sit atop it on the floor. Papa winks at me.
“Think you can beat me yet?”
“You’re on old man,” I say, which makes Papa chuckle. It’s a deep rumbling laugh; a sound I love to hear because it happens infrequently.
Papa might be strict, strange, and quiet, but he loves me, of that I am certain. The timer dings about thirty minutes into our game. Papa stands, stretches, and heads for the oven.
“What’d you make?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he pulls a tray from the oven and transfers it to a plate. He carries the plate over and sets it down next to the chess board. Chocolate chip cookies. Fat, thick, gooey ones.
My favorite.
“Thanks, Papa.” I snatch one from the plate and shove the entire thing in my mouth with a groan. They’re still hot, but I don’t care.
Treats are just that in our house—treats. Papa nods and does the same. By nine the sun has set, and blackness surrounds our modest cabin. I pick up the chess pieces and put them away, along with the board, before kissing Papa on the top of his head. He squeezes my hand in response.
