My Curse

The habits of old are not so easily disposed of. Even now, though I try with all my will to restrain myself, the dark hand lashes out, snuffing another soul as easily as one might blow out a candle or take breath. The man, aged about 73 years, let his cane from his grasp, allowing the worthless wooden stick to fall with a great clatter.

At first the fools seemed to smile and laugh with amazement, pointing and looking on at what they had appeared to be a miracle – a young man such as myself reaches out and suddenly an old man loses the need for his cane. Oh, how noble they must think I am! Then the old being crumpled to the ground, dead.

Havoc and Terror – my two companions were never too far from where I was. Even now the people run about, invoking Havoc and Terror as my unfortunate habit often causes them to do so. I watch, exasperated, as the pair run gleefully amok the minds of the inferior folk and within seconds, the great marketplace is quiet and empty, save myself – a lonesome, grim young man who is quite miserable with his lot.

Still, I think as I walk among the empty stands and grab an apple from the grocer’s, it doesn’t come without benefits.

Though I often think such to myself, I know deep down that none of these “benefits” are worth the cost – forced isolation and misery, as well as the consequential exile when the people band together and find courage in numbers. No amount of “benefits” would ever be enough to quell the pangs of inconsolable envy when I pass by a village and see children running and playing with each other, families bickering and laughing with one another.

As I set again upon my lonesome path, I crunch into the apple, the sweet juice bitterly in contrast with my life.


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