Page 2 of Poison Aches

“Have you asked Mrs. Irving?”

“I thought I made it clear before. My grandmother is grieving, officers, Let’s not make this any heavier than it has to be just because you are only obsessed in finding a certain unnamed woman.”

My brother’s sharp and clear voice strikes my heart into another pounding fury.

Peeking from where I stand, I see him, no longer just a naughty, mischief master boy but now, standing tall and serious staring at the officers.

“Young man—” the officer starts but Samuel cuts him off.

“My grandfather was involved in a strange accident that you wrote off as a freak weather accident. He drowned in the ocean after he miraculously saved his granddaughter from the same fate, and yet here you are, with vague questions that do nothing but disrupt this last goodbye.”

Last goodbye…

My throat starts burning and tears sting my eyes.

Who knew that after my stupidity, Gramps would come save me and lose his life for it?

I really am cursed.

“But your sister?—”

“Is still in pain, hasn’t said a word since yesterday. Now, unless you are ready to tell us exactly why you’re hovering around here, please leave my family in peace. We’ve already lost enough.”

The officers look at each other and then they give Samuel their card, asking him to call them if I regain my memories.

I watch as they leave, going down the stairs of the church towards their cars and then leave.

“Samuel, we’re truly sorry for your loss. Your grandfather was a good man,” one of the doctors says solemnly, with red rimmed eyes. “He was my mentor.”

“Mine too.”

“Same.”

Tears stream down my face as I feel the loss the world has experienced.

“It’s a pity. Dr. Irving was such a brilliant man. If only the girl hadn’t…”

“Thank you for your condolences, please go in. The service is about to begin,” Samuel mutters.

They all fall silent, pat Samuel on the shoulder and then they make their way toward the open doors of the church.

I clench my fists as more tears stream down my cheeks, tingling my nose.

I don’t have a right to cry.

I don’t have the right to grieve when I’m the one who killed Gramps, and everyone knows it, just as they know that my brother and I are discarded children.

I grip the hem of my dress and slink back into the shadows.

I can’t have amnesia.

If I truly have it, then why do I clearly remember how much of a curse I am?

All my life I’ve always known that I’m the problem.

I’m not sure what happened exactly, or how long I’ve been like this, but I’m pretty sure my mother knew that I’m a burden. An abomination. A curse that will destroy people’s lives.

Within a few hours of birthing me, she wrapped me in a thin blanket, placed me in an old, ratty, torn-up bassinet that was maybe found in the trash somewhere, and left me with my brother who was six years old at the time, in front of our grandparents’ doorstep in the dead of winter.

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