Bloody Families

Every family has secrets. Yes, even yours. And even if you think you know all there is to know about your kin, I am willing to bet there is still at least one secret tucked away at the back of the closet. How am I so certain? I hear you ask. Well, I thought I knew everything that went on in these palace walls, all the whispered mysteries that unfolded around me when people thought I wasn’t paying attention. Turns out, I wasn’t paying close enough attention.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Maybe we should start with introductions.

My name is Electra, second daughter of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra. Yes, Mycenae’s power couple; the mighty warrior and his bride, sister to Helen. Yep, her. The peerless beauty (according to Paris), and one of the key players in my family tearing itself apart. Not that she did it on purpose, or even knowingly. Like all of us, she is just a cog in the machine that twists and tangles the fates of this bloody family. In his defence, Agamemnon was doing his duty, racing to the aid of his brother Menelaus (husband of Helen - yep, brothers marrying sisters, how cute!) but I just can’t defend him sacrificing Iphigeneia so Artemis would come to the aid of his becalmed fleet (there is more to this story, but trying to stick to the headlines for now – check back later for the next instalment!) I am guessing you know the details of the siege and all – the media were all over it, from the serious war correspondents to the gossipy social pages, there was something for everyone in that. Dad eventually made his way home, and his triumphant return is where this story really begins.

Obviously, Agamemnon did not return alone; his loyal soldiers, now battle-hardened, accompanied him, full of tales of heroic deeds, and the looted trophies to lend credence to them. Not to be outdone, dad selected a beautiful young woman as his prize. Beautiful, but quite bonkers. Like a yappy little dog, she just would not shut up, even if you kicked her (yes, I did try. Repeatedly.) At first it was a sort of nervous babble that you could tune out – almost soothing if you closed your eyes and let it wash over you, but the cryptic prophesies and predictions began to take over. It had started on the journey back, dad said. Seemed like the closer she got to Mycenae (or, more likely, the further away from Troy) the more she became like a cheap radio, picking up signals from the closest oracle and spouting utter nonsense. Seemed to be fixated on fishing, according to him. On and on about fishing nets, super strong nets, don’t go near the water, WATCH OUT!!! MAGIC NETS!

When I first saw her it was from a distance, and I was struck by her beauty. Probably not much older than me, either. But when I actually met her face to face, I could tell she was troubled (and not just the weird prognostications). She clearly had something to tell me, to tell all of us, but no-one was listening. Unfortunately, the more insistent she became, the less attention people paid. I mean, who is going to believe a crazy woman spouting prophesies, tearing at her hair and clutching at your arm to try to convince you to JUST LISTEN!!!! I felt sorry for her, but the stuff she said to me was really unsettling. It started out normal enough (well, as normal as any prediction to come out of Delphi), and the first was intriguing.

“You should have been a star. You and your six sisters. You should have been a star.”

I mean, who doesn’t want to be a star? Not sure about the six sisters, as I only have two (well, one now – thanks dad!) But her other claim “this is not your life! You were destined to be the mother of the harpies!” was far from flattering – who would WANT to be related to those soul stealing bitches, never mind be responsible for bringing them into this world. This family already has enough blood on its hands. But maybe she was telling me I have been blessed, have escaped that curse? Who knows?

Maye she truly was an Oracle, but sadly her overly sensitive antenna picked up every thought and idea floating in the ether. Unfortunately for us, her brain was so busy processing all these competing messages, she lacked the capacity to filter them in any way, meaning we had to endure her constant verbal diarrhoea. Turned out there was an off switch, and soon to be stepdad Aegisthus found it, although hacking her head off with his axe may, in some circles, be considered a little, well, exuberant. And although she could no longer speak, she was there in my brain, worrying away at questions I wasn’t sure I wanted answers to.

And that is why I am here, now, dressed in clothing that is, compared to my old wardrobe, shabby rags. I am enslaved by my own mother, confined to the palace, whilst mum and her new husband, Aegisthus (did I mention mum killed dad? In the bath? With some weird, enchanted fishing net? – again, a story for another day, but those belong to their stories, and this story is mine.) go swanning off on state visits. Obviously, Chrysothemis is with them; the baby of the family has been promoted to daughter number one status, having ratted me out to mum when I tried to convince her to help me get rid of Aegisthus. . I may be a slave in my own home, bound to serve within the walls I was once served by others, but I’m not entirely sure Clytemnestra isn’t as much of a prisoner as I am. Her new husband stepped far too readily into dad’s shoes for my liking, and he seems to grow in stature by the day, as mum shrinks and fades to accommodate him.

My ancestry is complicated, cursed, and soaked in blood, but that’s just my family. I see now that we are more like the roots than the branches of the family tree, tangled and twisted, fighting for water and a firm foothold.

But as you read this, think about your own family.

Do you really believe yours is any less bloody?