Cursed

by Jeremy C. Shipp

And hatred towards the way I’ve been acting.

  Cicely deserves:

  1. Honesty.

  2. Respect.

  And maybe Cicely’s so sad because she can’t be friends with another John.

  She won’t.

  But even after all my lies, she’s giving me another chance.

  “He’ll kill you if you try to find him,” I say. “He told me. Please don’t look for him anymore.”

  “I won’t,” she says, soft.

  “You won’t?”

  “I don’t want to die, hon. I want to stop this guy so that we can live happier lives. If looking for him would only make things worse, then I’ll find another way.”

  “What if there is no other way?”

  “Then I’ll give up.” She squeezes my hand. “Do you want to tell me more about what happened?”

  I tell her more.

  In fact, I tell her everything.

  #27

  In my dream, my mother’s back. I’m trying to tell her how sorry I am that I forgot her birthday, but she can’t hear me. Or maybe she’s ignoring me.

  I notice a man outside the window. He’s watching us. He’s ugly, with urine gushing out his nostrils, but he’s still Pete. I draw the curtains.

  Then my mother’s body contorts. Her head spins and her knees smash together so hard and red sparks swarm at me.

  So I push her toward the hole in the floor, where she’ll fall deep down in the darkness.

  She tells me her reasons to live.

  But I don’t care enough to stop.

  Outside of this nightmare, awake, I escape to my workstation.

  And I try to think of the perfect plush to make for Cicely.

  I come up with a:

  1. Yard gnome.

  2. Spork.

  3. Pastel Godzilla.

  In other words, I fail.

  After Gordon wakes up, I join him in the kitchen.

  “I’m sorry I ran off yesterday,” I say. “I really did want to talk to you. I would’ve talked to you last night, but you were already asleep when I got back.”

  “No worries,” Gordon says. “Did your crisis end up alright?”

  “No. The psychopath went after a woman I know. He killed her.”

  “Oh shit. I’m sorry, Nick. Did you already call the police?”

  “They wouldn’t believe me. Kin didn’t really die in a way they’d recognize.” “Jesus fuck, what does that mean?”

  “Her body’s still alive. But he destroyed everything else. He made her into someone else.”

  Gordon taps his finger on the table. “Maybe it would help if you started from the beginning.”

  So I do.

  And Gordon:

  1. Listens.

  2. Rubs his chin.

  3. Cries.

  Afterward, he says, “I’m sorry he hurt you.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “I’m gonna help you however I can.”

  “It’d help me the most if you moved.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s not gonna happen.”

  “He could hurt you, Gordon. And if that happened, it’d be my fault.”

  “No, it’d be Pete’s fault.”

  “But I’m the one who got you involved.”

  “I’m involved because a psychopath is fucking with my best friend. Not to mention what he did to Meta.”

  “He could kill you.”

  “Now, are you treating me like an overbearing parent because I’m your friend or because I’m blind? Nevermind, you don’t have to answer that. Whatever the reason is, it doesn’t justify you treating me this way.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks. Don’t get me wrong, Nick. I’m glad you care about me and all, but you’re not my protector, and you don’t need to blame yourself if I get hurt. I’m capable of making my own decisions.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t sweat it.” He stands. “Can I hug you?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  We hug.

  And Gordon’s more than my friend right now, even if he doesn’t know it. He’s another reason to live.

  I think about:

  1. Gordon’s expertise in all things psychopathic.

  2. The many times he helped me when I was sure no one could.

  And for a few fleeting moments:

  1. The world is right in the apartment again.

  2. I feel safe.

  The note on the door tells me that:

  1. My new nickname is Nickknack.

  2. I’m welcome to wait inside.

  3. I might want to hurry, because Cicely spotted a flock of hungry-looking flying monkeys on the roof earlier.

  Inside, I see a grass hut with chicken legs, tightroping a genie’s extra-long ear hair over a fondue volcano. And I don’t see what else is new, because as the creature in the swirling darkness invades my vision:

  1. My eyes freeze.

  2. Fear trickles down my back.

  Cicely could be out there right now, dooming herself in an effort to find Pete.

  “She’s fine,” I say, and most of me believes it.

  The horror dissipates.

  I trust her.

  For a few minutes I work on the pattern for a fire hydrant plush I need to create, but then Cicely and Abby come in.

  “What happened?” I say, because Abby’s crying.

  “She wanted to visit Kin,” Cicely says.

  “Oh.”

  Abby sits beside me on the couch, close.

  I glance at my watch.

  “You were right, Nick,” Abby says, wiping her tears. “She’s gone. She didn’t remember me at all.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “We have to do what he says, or he’ll kill us too.”

  “We won’t let that happen,” Cicely says.

  Abby:

  1. Jiggles her knee up and down.

  2. Bites at her fingernail.

  “My alien parasite is starving,” Cicely says. “Shall we eat?”

  We eat.

  Although Abby hardly touches her food.

  “I was thinking,” Cicely says, tapping her tennis ball on the table. “Maybe we could hire a sketch artist and get ourselves a drawing of Pete.”

  “But,” I say, fast. “You said you weren’t gonna look for him anymore.”

  “And I won’t. I think it might be safer for us if we can recognize him. If we see him somewhere, we’ll know to run the other way.”

  Then I:

  1. Look into her eyes.

  2. Nod.

  3. Say, “We don’t need a sketch artist.”

  4. Draw Pete’s smirking face in my purple notebook.

  Cicely and Abby study the page.

  I wait for a look of recognition to invade their faces, because this asshole might be someone they know.

  But they only stare.

  “Thank you,” Cicely says.

  “Can I stay here tonight?” Abby says.

  “Of course, hon,” Cicely says. “Anytime.”

  And once again, the surge of jealousy in my chest reminds me that I’m:

  1. Stupid.

  2. Pathetic.

  3. The same asshole I always was.

  Later, the three of us head into the living room to see one of Cicely’s favorite films, The Lost Skeleton of Cadavra.

  Before we sit, Abby:

  1. Says, “Oh yeah. I want to show you something.”

  2. Fishes a piece of paper from her pocket.

  And I:

  1. Approach her.

  2. Stumble.

  3. Fall forward.

  4. Grab at her.

  5. Feel the sting as she slaps me.

  6. Say, “Fuck, I’m sorry. Are you alright?”

  “Yeah,” she says. “I’m sorry, Nick. I didn’t mean to do that.”

  “I know. Are you bleeding?”

  “No. You barely touched it.”

  Of course she’s:

  1. Referring to h
er stab wound.

  2. Lying.

  I watch Cicely help Abby to the couch, then I:

  1. Turn around.

  2. Look at the spot of the rug where I tripped.

  There’s nothing there.

  “I’d better go,” I say.

  “It was an accident,” Cicely says. “It was the curse.”

  Or maybe part of me is hurting her on purpose.

  And maybe deep down, in the darkness of my heart, I don’t care enough to stop.

  Eventually, Abby:

  1. Shows me the flyer for a new insect exhibit at the museum.

  2. Says, “You wanna go?”

  And after everything I’ve done to her, I don’t know how to say no.

  So I don’t.

  Abby and me, we watch the giant animatronic grasshopper:

  1. Open and close its mandibles.

  2. Move its antennae.

  “Have you ever heard of a hairworm?” Abby says.

  “I don’t think so,” I say.

  “It’s this parasite that lives inside grasshoppers. When the hairworm’s old enough, it messes with the grasshopper’s central nervous system. You know what happens next?”

  “No.”

  “The hairworm forces the grasshopper to commit suicide by jumping into water. In the water, the hairworm can swim off and find a mate. Isn’t that weird?”

  “Definitely weird.”

  And with this scenario in mind, I can’t help but think of Pete and his manipulations.

  Then again, this comparison is an insult to parasites everywhere.

  Pete’s not surviving.

  He’s violating.

  “Lots of people wonder about beached whales,” Abby says. “Why they do it, you know? I think it’s probably some sort of parasite like the hairworm that needs to get on land.”

  “That’s interesting,” I say.

  “I hope they have a big robot ant in one of the rooms.”

  “That’d be nice.”

  “Did you know some birds put ants on their bodies or rub them on their feathers?”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “It’s called anting. There are lots of reasons they might do it, but some people think they use the formic acid from the ants to kill mites and fungi and stuff. Oh, and rooks even fumigate their wings with cigarette smoke. People say bird brain like it’s a bad thing, but birds are really smart.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I still like ants the best though.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t remember.” Her beaming face wilts fast.

  “You know, maybe the fact that you like ants says something about your family.”

  “What do you mean?’

  “Well, ants live in close-knit groups, and they get along well. Maybe you connect with that because your family was the same way.”

  Then Abby:

  1. Says, “Maybe.”

  2. Looks down at her feet.

  3. Cries.

  Obviously, it was stupid of me to think I could offer her more than:

  1. Injuries.

  2. Pain.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  Abby:

  1. Wipes her eyes.

  2. Sniffles.

  3. Says, “I need to tell you something.”

  “Alright,” I say.

  “Not here with all these people.”

  So we speed through the rest of the exhibit. And Abby never slows down, even when we pass the massive worker ant.

  Inside the car, Abby:

  1. Locks her door.

  2. Looks into my eyes.

  3. Starts crying again.

  I think about:

  1. Holding her hand.

  2. Telling her that I’m here for her.

  But instead, I study my mole.

  “I did something terrible,” Abby says. “I’m afraid you’ll hate me if I tell you.”

  “I won’t hate you,” I say.

  “How do you know that?”

  “I just know. You can tell me.”

  She:

  1. Picks at a scab on her knee.

  2. Says, “Yesterday, I thought about…killing you.”

  And I:

  1. Bite at my fingernail.

  2. Say, “Because…I keep hurting you?”

  “No!” she says. “What kind of person do you think I am?”

  “Sorry.”

  “I’ve never wanted to hurt you or anything. It’s just that Pete left me this note. He said if I killed you, he’d give me my life back. My family and my memories and everything. He said all I have to do is say this one special word. Then you’d die instantly, without any pain at all. And a few times...I thought about saying it.”

  New tears spill down her face, and I look away. “It’s alright, Abby. I understand.”

  “I don’t want you to be afraid of me. I’ll never say the word. I promise.”

  “I believe you.”

  “The word isn’t a normal one. So you don’t have to worry about me saying it on accident either.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  “Even if Pete really did give me back everything he took from me, I’d never be happy with you gone. My whole life would be about regretting what I did to you.” She rubs her eyes with her palms. “I care about you a lot, Nick.”

  And I think about telling her:

  1. She’s better off saying the special word.

  2. I’ll only end up causing her more pain.

  3. Part of me deserves to be sacrificed.

  But instead, I say, “Thanks.”

  “There’s something else I gotta tell you,” she says. “It’s not as bad as the last thing, but it’s still bad.”

  “Alright.”

  “I know how terrible you feel for stabbing me and hurting me. But it’s not your fault at all, Nick. I let you suffer and blame yourself because I didn’t want to tell you the truth.”

  I stare at her face. “What is the truth?”

  “My curse isn’t just about me losing my family. Pete made it so that things hurt me.”

  “What sort of things?”

  “Everything. I get into accidents all the time, but they’re not really accidents. The whole world is against me. And the only reason you hurt me more often than other things is because you need to get slapped every day. So our curses are sort of attracted to each other, you know? They fit together.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “I’m dangerous, and I thought you wouldn’t want to be around me anymore.” She continues picking at her scab. “I’m really sorry, Nick. I’ll stay away from you guys if you want me to.”

  Then she:

  1. Takes a deep breath.

  2. Looks me in the eyes, as if I have the power to decide her fate. Maybe I do.

  “We’re in this together,” I say, holding her hand.

  She beams, bright.

  And for a few fleeting moments, so do I.

  Maybe part of me is still:

  1. Stupid.

  2. Pathetic.

  3. The same asshole I always was.

  But maybe deep down, in the depths of my heart, I do care.

  #28

  I’m sure gordon realizes that by walking through this doorway he may be:

  1. Crossing a line in Pete’s head.

  2. Dooming himself to be cursed, or worse.

  Still, he:

  1. Doesn’t hesitate.

  2. Smiles.

  3. Says, “Thanks for letting me join in.”

  “Thank you for wanting to help,” Cicely says.

  “I just hope I’ll be able to somehow.”

  “I’m sure you will. More heads are better than less. Well, except when you’re born with two and your other head’s narrow-minded and annoying.”

  “You’re speaking from experience?” I say.

  “I wish I weren’t,” Cicely says. “She and I never got along, so we decided to make a clean break
. I went my way. She rolled hers. The last thing I heard, she was dating a bigoted bowling ball in Texas. Anyway, you two make yourselves at home. I’ll finish up the nymph hair pasta. I hear it’s even better than angel.” She heads into the kitchen.

  And I:

  1. Lead Gordon to the couch.

  2. Introduce him to Abby.

  “What’s your dog’s name?” Abby says.

  “Meta,” Gordon says.

  “Oh. That was the name one of the first guide dogs in Britain, right?”

  He grins. “Yeah.”

  “Can I pet her?”

  “Sure. Let me take off her harness first, so she knows it’s party time.”

  While Gordon’s busy with that, I move my chair away from the couch, to the opposite side of the room.

  Abby stares at me.

  “I don’t want to hurt you anymore,” I say. “Maybe if we don’t get too close, we can keep our curses from mingling.”

  “Are you sure that’ll work?” she says.

  “No, but it’s worth a try, right?”

  “That’s true.”

  “All done,” Gordon says.

  Then Abby:

  1. Pets Meta.

  2. Says, “Did you know a dog was King of Norway for 3 years?”

  “I can’t say that I did,” Gordon says. “I take it you’re a fan of our canine brothers and sisters?”

  “Yeah. I’m more interested in arthropods though.”

  “I don’t know much about insects, but I’ve always found fleas fascinating. You know they’ve caused more human deaths than all the wars ever fought, combined?”

  “Yeah, people say fleas caused the Black Death, but I’ve read a lot of alternative theories. The Black Death could’ve been an Ebola-like virus or a form of anthrax, and not the bubonic plague at all. So maybe fleas had nothing to do with it. But even if the disease was spread by fleas, it wasn’t their fault or anything. Terrible epidemics like that would never happen if humans weren’t so overpopulated.”

  “Can’t argue with that.”

  At this point, I decide to join Cicely in the kitchen.

  “Can I help?” I say.

  “I am in dire need of a taste tester,” Cicely says, holding out a wooden spoon.

  I taste. “Delicious. What is it?”

  “Killer tomato soup.”

  “Seriously? How’d you manage to kill the killer tomatoes?”

  “I went after the babies.”

  “That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”

  “It’s the circle of life, Nicholas. And circles are never wrong.”

  “That’s true.”

  We carry the pasta and soup to the table.