BLOODLINES

BY PRINCE VIOLENT

[ part 1 ]

Wealth has its privileges. As the heir to an estate that most would instantly recognized I am used to getting my way. What I desire most is very simple. I want to live forever. Some, no doubt, would settle for cryogenics. I hate to be cold. Others might seek out a scientist knowledgeable in cloning. But there are other more… enjoyable ways.

Consider this:

When a man and a woman produce a child that child’s DNA is a composite of the parents, perhaps half from each. Most children will lean towards one or the other parent but on average it’s a 50-50 split. The child will draw traits from both.

Now contrary to popular belief when a child is born as the result of incest it doesn’t typically come out as monstrous freak. It’s just that if there is a genetically inherited condition in the family, such as diabetes, the chances of the child having that condition is doubled because it has it on both sides rather than just one. The truth is that families of royal blood have been inbreeding for hundreds of years.

Here’s another secret. People who grow up in affluent and influential families will often say or do anything they can to retain or, better yet, grow the power they have enjoyed. As a personal friend of the Bush family I can tell you, from the inside, that is one seriously fucked up bunch of people.

But who am I to judge? OK, I don’t whack of all over the football like George has been known to do. Football is the code word for the brief case he carries with all the nuclear launch codes. And I don’t fuck my mother like Jeb does. But my sister? Well that’s a different story.

For as long as I can remember I have been attracted to her. I am seven years older. Our nanny seemed to appreciate my help since it gave her the opportunity to slip off for a nip of brandy or pilfered single malt.

It started so innocently. I remember watching her in her crib while she slept. I heard that little girls are different down there and I just wanted to peak. But when I slid the blanket off of her and looked at her tiny features, smelling of baby lotion, well she was just so soft I had to touch her skin. Just to see what it was like is all. She was soft and cool. She made my head spin in a way I had never known before.

I suppose you think I just grabbed her and raped the shit out of her right there in her crib. You twisted fuck. No, I just touched her very gently enjoying the tenderness of my little sister. But I kept touching her. All over. Every chance I got.

Tiff grew older knowing the feel of my gentle hands on her. It seemed to soothe her. Our parents were too busy with business and socializing to pay much attention to their children. Our nanny preferred the company of her snifter. I was the one who took pride in her first steps as she toddled into my arms. I was the one who heard her speak her first word, “Bub bub.” I knew she meant “brother” though no one else cared. She was mine.

I really don’t think it would have gone much further if not for the thunderstorm. I was a boy and did boy things. She was just my sweet little sister Tiff. True, the touching had turned into petting and kissing long ago. But I still like to think it was innocent.

Remember that little yellow bird that used to sit on Snoopy’s dog house with a typewriter writing, “It was a dark and stormy night…” over and over? Well it was.

Tiff was four then and typical of girls at that age she was horrified by thunderstorms. She was also the middle child, mother and father having just brought home little Allison so they could ignore her too.

It was a dark and stormy night. Lighting was going off like some kind of giant Tesla coil and thunder shook the main house. I was trying to sleep when a particularly bright flash revealed Tiff standing in my doorway.

“Alli is scared”, she announced.

Padding across the floor in her pink footie pajamas she grabbed hold of my sleeve and started tugging. “Alli is scared”, she repeated. Tiff didn’t look too confident herself. Wiping the sleep from my eyes I let her drag me down the hall to the room the girls shared. True enough when we got there Allison was crying and trembling.

“Touch her”, Tiff implored me. “Make her stop crying!”

“I really shouldn’t Tiff. Mom and Dad wouldn’t like it”, I replied.

“But she’s crying. She won’t let me sleep.”

I still blame Tiff. It wasn’t enough that I stroked the baby. No, Tiff insisted that I touch Alli like I always did with her. At four Tiff understood about secrets. I made real sure of that. Sure enough Alli was soon calmed and sleeping.

“OK, Tiff, she’s sleeping now. I’m going back to my room”

“No”, she whined, “I want you to stay here with me. I don’t like those big booms.” The silly child was too young to know it’s the lightning and not the thunder one needs to worry about. I told her it was “just God bowling” but that didn’t seem to take comfort in it. She just kept begging me to lay next to her on her little white big girl bed with the pink Disney Princess comforter.

“OK, sis, but just for a few minutes. Then I have to go back to bed too.”

Tiff took up most of the bed but I lay down next to her my legs hanging off the side and my feet touching the floor. I put my arms around my little sister and held her close to me. I stroked her tenderly through the thick winter cloth of her footie jammies. Like just on her arm and her tummy and stuff. But it wasn’t enough. I longed for the feel of her bare flesh.

“Be vewy, vewy quite,” I told her in my best Elmer Fudd voice. “I’m hunting wabbits!”