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And the Curse Begins
When I was seven years old, I watched my aunt die.
No, it was more than that—I felt her leave this world.
Our hands connected—something so simple—yet instantly, I was no longer me…
A staccato beep followed by a faint gasp created a haunting tempo. The overpowering
fragrance of disinfectant lingered in the air. And when my eyelashes parted, a strenuous feat,
the room blurred before it came back into focus. White paper-thin fabric rose and fell gradually,
igniting a fire within my chest with every inhalation. And bright rays, blindingly so, remained
trapped behind closed blinds. Intense beams crept through slits to rest in horizontal lines across
my white sheets while tears burned the edges of my sight.
Just let me see the sun, came the silent beg. A tear seeped from the corner of my eye before
another followed its path, my chin wobbling around that invasive tube that paralyzed my vocal
cords.
And across the room, a television remained suspended in the corner, its reflection… mirroring
someone I didn’t recognize. Her brown skin was dull, faded of any warmth, stretched over bone.
Her head, full of countless little patches, patches where long black hair had thinned to limp
strands, strands that exposed more than it covered. She— I was so thin.
And everything just felt so heavy, even the power to keep my eyelids open was weakening.
Yet, I needed to see— I needed to see her one last time.
I couldn’t turn my head; the rise and fall of my chest was difficult enough. But through the
corner of my eye, I could see my Natasha. Her wild curls tousled, her small legs tucked under her
pink tutu, her chubby face resting on my husband’s arm. The room was fading, the weight upon
me was growing heavier, and still with my last ounce of strength I reached out for them. My
hand extended until I could see them no more.
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