BLOOD SISTERS
Greg Egan
When we were nine years old, Paula decided we should prick our thumbs, and let our blood flow into each other’s veins.
I was scornful. “Why bother? Our blood’s already exactly the same. We’re already blood sisters.”
She was unfazed. “I know that. That’s not the point. It’s the ritual that counts.”
We did it in our bedroom, at midnight, by the light of a single candle. She sterilized the needle in the candle flame, then wiped it clean of soot with a tissue and saliva.
When we’d pressed the tiny, sticky wounds together, and recited some ridiculous oath from a third-rate children’s novel, Paula blew out the candle. While my eyes were still adjusting to the dark, she added a whispered coda of her own: “Now we’ll dream the same dreams, and share the same lovers, and die at the very same hour.”
I tried to say, indignantly, “That’s just not true!” but the darkness and the scent of the dead flame made the protest stick in my throat, and her words remained unchallenged.
. . .
