Princess of the Damned

Earlier this afternoon.

I’m in the kitchen prepping a chicken for dinner.

Julia and Alex have been playing upstairs – wonderful child-play – with lots of shrieking and gurgly laughter.

Julia comes into the kitchen.  The way her heels hit the floor is very businesslike, no-nonsense, and could be intimidating if she wasn’t so short.

"Mom."  She stated.  "I gotta tell you something."  Something that cannot wait, by the tone.

"What is it, Julia?"  I ask, still busy with the chicken.

"Mom, look, I got blood."

When she speaks the word, blood has about three syllables.

I look down to see what’s bleeding.  She’s not crying, so it can’t be too bad.

She holds up one tiny finger; her other hand squeezes the finger tightly so that a tiny line of blood appears just beneath the nail.

"How did that happen?"  I ask, turning back to my chicken.

"I don’t know" she says, unconcerned now.  Her shoulders shrug in this new tone of voice.

She pauses a bit.

"But it’s good to lick!"

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