Blood of My Death

Blood of My Death: The Ancient Earthscrapper - Chapter One - Part One

Elation courses through my veins as we descend the stairs, a symphony of sizzling omelets serenading our senses. My daughter, Violet, gracefully assists in disconnecting my wheelchair from the chairlift. The seamless transition is a testament to the bond that runs deep between us. I've never had to transfer in and out of my wheelchair to access the lower level, thanks to the chairlift—a small mercy that I cherish.

As Violet completed her task, she followed her sisters to the den, leaving me to join Kristonia in the kitchen. My paralysis has never hindered my determination to cook. "Kris, you doing alright?" I inquire, concern lacing my tone as I watch her expertly flip an omelet, the confidence of a gourmet chef radiating from her every movement.

"Nothing, sis. Just feeling grateful for our loving family," I reply, my voice ringing with genuine joy.

"Cut the act, Kristen," she retorts, a hint of teasing in her tone as she adds green peppers to an omelet.

I gazed at Kristonia, captivated by her effortless grace as she expertly flipped the omelet in the sizzling pan, her movements akin to those of a seasoned gourmet chef. Each delicate twist and turn of the spatula seemed choreographed, a mesmerizing dance of culinary artistry. She paused to sprinkle a pinch of salt and a dash of black pepper, the fine granules falling like stardust onto the golden surface of the omelet. A smile adorned her face, a radiant testament to her joy in the kitchen, and her eyes sparkled with an inner light that never failed to enchant me.

As her hands worked their magic, a warm, almost ethereal glow seemed to emanate from her porcelain skin, casting a gentle halo around her. Kristonia looked up at me, her emerald-green eyes locking with mine, and her smile deepened, filling the room with a palpable sense of contentment. At that moment, as we hummed in unison, I felt a profound connection. That invisible thread that had bound us together since we were born had only grown stronger over time, even as we grew up and faced the challenges of adulthood, as we grew stronger with one another.

Our bond was not only spiritual but also visual, a testament to our unbreakable connection. Today, like many others, we wore matching outfits that exemplified our identical twin status. The royal blue, above-knee, long-sleeve cable-knit turtleneck sweater dress hugged our figures, while sleek black leggings and blue running shoes completed our ensemble. Our attire, though seemingly identical, was a tribute to the unique bond we shared, the embodiment of our inseparability.

A few years ago, an unfortunate accident left me paralyzed from the waist down, altering the course of my life. Yet, even in the face of adversity, our connection remained unwavering. It was as if an invisible force, tangible and undeniable, continued to flourish between us, ensuring that we would always be there for one another. This unspoken promise extended to my children, who bore striking resemblances to Kristonia and me, even though they were of different ages. They brought immeasurable joy into our lives, mirroring our connection in their own unique way, and knowing that Kristonia would care for them, come what may, was a source of profound comfort for me.

With her long, flowing hair cascading down to her waist, Kristonia exuded a regal aura that never ceased to amaze me. The jet-black strands, reminiscent of a lion's majestic mane, possessed a voluminous quality that breathed life into her appearance. I couldn't help but compare our hair as my fingers found their way to the lush fibers of my locks, which flowed just below my shoulders. In our circle of friends, our hair had often been described as thick, vibrant, glossy, and exceptionally shiny.

As she continued to mix a bowl of eggs, Kristonia's hair exhibited a playful bounce, a testament to its vitality. Our nightly ritual of doing each other's hair had become a cherished tradition, and during those moments, we'd engage in light-hearted debates about whose hair was softer. Kristina, in her ever-gracious manner, argued that mine possessed a more delicate texture while secretly yearning for the natural waves that adorned my own locks. Our mother, who often marveled at our shared features, described our hairstyle as straight with a hint of natural waviness, and most people regarded our hair as luxuriously smooth.