Page 3 of A Soul's Curse
“Oh, you’re a lifesaver, Theo! I’ve been trying to kick that nasty habit for years. Your stuff has been the only thing that’s helped.” He stared in awe at the chocolate squares inside the clear plastic bag. They were specially created using a combination of my magic and regular healing spells used by witches. The advantage of knowing all about things that could kill you, meant I was also pretty adept at learning how to make sure they didn’t.
I left George at the front desk, making my way down the hallway of artificial cheer. There was nothing wrong with this place, but behind the plain walls and cozy furniture was a quiet kind of sadness, the kind that lingered in the corners where laughter didn’t quite reach. As I rounded the corner to my mom’s room and stood in the doorway, a foreboding feeling pricked my skin. Every time I walked these halls, my mind instinctively drifted back to that one bitter winter night—the night that awakened the grim magic inside me and altered my family’s future forever.
I was fourteen, my sister sixteen. We were sitting at the dining room table with my mom while playing a board game, waiting for my dad to come home late from the office, when someonebroke into our house. My mom hid me and my sister in a closet, but she stood to face the intruder. I didn't see what happened, but I heard a body crashing into the furniture, and my mom’s painful cries turning into agonizing screams that eventually just … stopped.
A tap on my shoulder brought my attention back to the present. My sister stood in front of me with a scowl on her face and arms tightly crossed over her chest. Her baby-blue scrubs were crisp and clean, and her golden hair, slightly darker than mine with a touch more curl to it, was tied back into a low ponytail. She also inherited our mother’s honey-colored eyes and her slight build. She looked exactly like our mother had in her youth.
I raised my hand, palm open, and gave a quick, casual wave. "Hey, Paige" I signed, a warm smile spreading across my face. Her scowl dropped, and she wrapped me in a tight hug that I happily returned.
What happened to our mom wasn’t either of our faults, but it didn’t stop me from feeling responsible. The contusion she suffered when she hit the back of her head against the table apparently struck her in just the right spot to leave her with severe brain damage. To make matters worse, I had thrown the closet door open and screamed for our mom, determined to help her. The second Paige had seen her body, she started crying uncontrollably. The intruder, who had been leaving, turned back around, placed his hands on either side of her head, and pulsed some kind of magic into her ears to make her stop. She did stop, and she could never hear or speak another word again.
I remembered very little about that night, only that I passed out before the intruder left and that there wasn’t enough information for the police to find a suspect. I remembered nothing about that man who left my mother for dead, my sister permanently deaf. Not what he was wearing, if he spoke to me,or even a fragment of what his face might have looked like. What I did remember, though, was that feeling of complete helplessness. To this day, I felt like I had let my family down.
Paige let go of the embrace and wrinkled her nose at me. “You smell like …” She made a dramatic gagging gesture.
“Death?” I finished for her. Even though I didn’t see any remnants of the mutant unicorn soaked into my clothes, the stench definitely lingered, and it didn’t smell like jellybeans and gummy bears.
She grabbed my hand and walked me over toward our mother, who was sitting quietly in her wheelchair, staring out the window at several birds frolicking around in a bath. She was in her mid-fifties, but because of her condition, she appeared much older. Over time, her muscles weakened and became frail from lack of movement. Her face, which used to be a glowing ray of sunshine, now remained a flat expression devoid of any emotion.
“How is she doing?” My hands whirled around, my concerned expression directed at Paige.
My sister shrugged. “The same. She doesn’t talk, not that I could hear her, anyway. Her muscles have weakened to the point she can no longer get up. One of the nurses reads to her, and she likes to sit outside when it’s nice out, but other than that …”
I sighed, looking back to my mom. She deserved better than this life. She was a loving mother and had been a devoted psychologist. She helpedsavepeople. How could someone have done such a horrible thing to a good person like her? The intruder hadn’t even stolen anything … he broke in, attacked us, and left.
I watched as Paige diligently went about her duties: making sure the pillow behind my mom’s back was perfectly placed, refilling her cup with apple juice, and spreading out a few cookies on a napkin.
Neither of us had magic the day of the attack, but it took form soon after. Given her inability to hear, I had assumed my sister would have developed some kind of telepathy, but instead, her magic shaped into the ability to … act on instinct. She always seemed to know what people were thinking and exactly what they wanted, without even making eye contact. Her other senses also heightened, giving her keen instincts to act accordingly when she needed to.
“I have to check in on the other residents. You okay here?” Paige raised her brows and tilted her head.
I opened my palm and tapped my thumb to my chest a few times. “Fine.” She patted me on the shoulder on her way out, her wide smile, which looked so much like our mother’s once had, filled my insides with warmth.
I dragged over a chair and sat beside my mom. Like most rooms in these facilities, it was a clean, modest, square box with a twin-size bed nestled in the corner, and a table against the other wall for eating. There was a wooden chest and end table, both of which had very little stored in them, and a gorgeous view of the terrace outside where many of the residents like to spend their time.
“Hey, Mom. How’s it going?” My only response was a blink of her brown eyes. “Yeah, it’s been a busy day for me too. I was chased by this really weird-looking floppy unicorn thing this morning. But don’t worry. I’m okay. Oh, and Emily Dickinson says hi! I think you two would have been good friends … if you lived in the same time period.”
I kept blabbering on, hoping that even though my mom never responded that she could still process what I was saying.
I picked up my mother’s fragile hand and gasped dramatically. “My God, Mom. What have you been doing to these nails? The polish on them is all chipped and cracked.”
There was a slight switch of her lower lip … a laugh, maybe? Of course, there was nothing wrong with her nails because she never used her hands.
I snagged a flimsy folding TV table and propped it between us, then pulled out my supplies from my backpack—several bottles of nail polish, polish remover, a file, and a few other things. “This simply won’t do. What color would you like this time? I have … Ballet Slipper Pink or Pumpkin Spice Latte.”
Her gaze traveled over toward the bottle of pink polish. “Good choice. Personally, I’m not a fan of pumpkin spice lattes either.”
As I continued yapping, I set to work painting my mother’s nails. She always took great pride in her appearance, and I had to think she wouldn’t be pleased with herself if she saw how she looked with her plain clothes, lack of makeup, and wild hair. This was one of the few things I could do for her that hopefully brought her some sense of enjoyment.
When I finished her nails, I moved on to her hair. What once was a lustrous, golden-blonde mane was now a pale straw color, brittle and frizzy like the bristles of a broom. I wasn’t confident enough in my hair cutting abilities, but I knew a thing or two about hair products. I uncapped a bottle and squirted some oil into my hand. “I use this stuff on my own hair. Makes it baby soft. Sly said he likes the way it feels. Can you believe we’ve been dating for almost five years now?”
At the mention of my boyfriend, a tightness rooted itself in my stomach. Our schedules rarely matched up, given I was always working at the pizza joint or brewing up new spells, and he worked odd hours, usually getting up just as I would leave for work. I was looking forward to spending time with him on our anniversary.
My mom twitched, a subtle gesture but one that caught my attention. When I looked out the window, I saw the ghost of a young man staring straight at me.
“There’s someone there,” I told my mom. “Can you sense them?” I knew she couldn’t see the dead, but most witches had an ability to connect with the earth, whether that be people, nature, or animals. My mom’s ability as an empath sometimes seemed to cross over into the afterlife. She couldn’t physically heal wounds, but as a psychologist, she had once been exceptional at closing the emotional ones.
“Should we go outside and get some fresh air? Say hello to our new friend?” I wheeled her down the hallway and out onto the terrace, a lovely stone patio alive with fall flowers and hearty bushes.
