They said he was cursed. I didn’t believe them; I just thought he was scarred, burned alive and still around to tell the tale. That’s what all the newspapers had said. So why wouldn’t I believe it?
I was the one who found him collapsed on the floor, a wilted rose in his hand, the thorn drawing blood from his palm. The paramedic said cardiac arrest, but that didn’t make any sense—he was only twenty-one.
It was his birthday.
Even as his pulse flatlined, the staff in and around the room cried “curse”. Like magic had been the cause of this tragedy, like they couldn’t face reality for once in their sorry lives and deal with the trauma as normal people would.
I whispered my secrets to him, the things I had always wanted to say but never had the chance. I knew he couldn’t hear, couldn’t open his eyes to see my tears and respond. But I said them anyway.
His body began to shift. Scars were replaced by flawless skin, a full head of hair returned to his scalp. His heart awoke, his eyes fluttered open; my secrets had not fallen on deaf ears.
The staff rejoiced, proclaiming that the curse had been broken, that I had saved the day, like some kind of hero. Somehow, I didn’t feel like one. I didn’t want to be one.
But if it meant having him back, I would be.
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