Cursed

The fresh smell of sea salt bit at the frigid chill in the air, and even though it was summer, it could have passed for the dead of winter. A boy of merely eighteen stumbled from a break of fog and fought to keep his step upright. He’d just retreated from the alchemist’s house, narrowly escaping with his life. Though, he’d mumbled something about an elixir, chanting it beneath his breath, uttered in a whisper. He’d thought the old man was crazy, mad in the brain, especially when he pointed at him.

But, when he’d begun to struggle to stay on his feet and not meet the ground with his face, he could feel a searing sting flow through his veins, tainting his blood and climbing every which way. And, even now, as he fought to stay on his feet, he could feel the same, slow sting climb through every piece of hair on his scalp, and settle on his eyes, working from the edges inward.

Is this what death feels like? He wondered with a quick gasp as the dirt ridden path came up to meet his face. He couldn’t control his muscles, couldn’t control his eyes from slipping closed. In his mind, he was screaming, he was hollering for anyone around to help him.

No one came to his rescue.

As seconds ticked on, the pain became beyond unbearable, like a million little flames sizzling through his entire body. And he was sure he was dead, he was sure that the reaper knocked on his head while he was crumbled down in the bed of dirt and digits of grass, but he continued to breathe.

After a few more minutes, he slowly dragged one eye open and felt the chilling swathe of misty rain clamber down onto his body, sodden in the new mud. He was alive, but the world seemed more vibrant, more realistic, more ethereal. He could see each individual water droplet fall from the sky. He could taste the pure salt from the water yards beneath him, he could see the forming waves that would crash into the wall soon enough. All things that he couldn’t see were all flooding him in perfect clarity.

Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet on shaky, strongly enhanced legs, his brows pulling together in question. Rubbing his eyes and releasing a slow groan, he’d noticed that the world had stopped spinning, but everything seemed overbearingly still.

“Salvatore!”

Turning to the sound of his last name with his eyebrows still pulled together, he found a fist draping his cheek in a crunching, swift jab. Spinning around on his heel, he tripped down onto one knee before wiping his mouth and cheek with the black sleeve of his shirt.

“What the hell?” he growled, throwing his head back in the direction of the flying fist only to get a foot to his stomach.

Flying back towards the cliff’s edge, his head stared down into black, dangerous waves. Embracing his new gift of sight and sound, he could make out the pounding of feet moving his way, and quickly approaching. Jumping to his feet, he shot his hand out and grabbed the taller man by the throat and tightened his fingers about its base.

“Enough,” he’d growled through a short whisper, fighting to breathe correctly since the kick to the stomach made all of his muscles tighten and knot together in a most painful way.

Clawing at the hand that severed his pathways, the taller eighteen year old cried with hatred, “Look what you’ve done to me! Look!”

The young man looked all over his face, taking in his eyes, and how they were now a pale blue that made them gleam silver in the night, and his hair that used to be a light blonde was now a dark, shagging brown that curled over his eyes, making them brighter still.

“You look… different, Peter. What’s become of you?” the boy asked in a horrorstruck voice, his breathing hitching as he got the full picture of him. His muscles were more defined, his lanky stature was confident and full, his jaw more angular, his whole body strong and lean.

“You should see yourself if you want to see different.” Peter rippled his reply through a choked voice, throwing the hand from his neck and turning his back slightly. “Your hair isn’t a light brown anymore, Owen. Your dark brown hues have diminished. You’ve grown at least five inches, for God’s sake!”

His eyebrows, if possible, pulled together more, merging into one as he moved at a quick grace to a nearby puddle. Owen threw himself down onto his knees and braced his hands on either side of the puddle. He released a scream of grunts and profanities. “Impossible!”

His jaw, too, was more angular and defined, as was the rest of his body, though that wasn’t the biggest change of them all. He stared into his face, into his eyes, and waited for them to turn back into a muddy brown. Instead, his eyes were the color of the moon, silver and gleaming in the misty night. His hair fell in its usual soft curls, twining over his eyes and ears, but it was the darkest shade of black. Pure black, all with the absence of color, which graced his head in full.

“What kind of devil craft is this?” he yelled his breathing shortening as it had all night. He touched his face as though it were made of stone, a sculpture that was crafted by an all-seeing artist.

When he heard no response, he turned on his heel to look back at Peter, with his hands in his pockets and his eyes searching through the water below. Just as Owen was about to ask if he’d heard him at all, Peter sighed, “Don’t act dim. You know damn well what’s happened to us. You know damn well what this means for us!”

As Owen thought on it, his eyes widened and his head shook frivolously. “No, it’s not true—can’t be true.” His eyes hardened and his voice developed an echo, “We are noblemen, God damn it! This doesn’t happen to us! We can’t be shaded. It’s—it’s impossible.”

Peter’s own hard gaze shot over his shoulder and pierced Owen, his voice like knives, “Well it has. We can never go home. We can never return. Our families will know instantly what has happened to us. Just as you’ve stated, we’re noblemen, God damn it.”

“Don’t group us together. We’re not cut from the same rope, no matter which way you twist it.” Owen scoffed, his eyes rolling. “Perhaps you can’t go home, but I can. I’m not afraid of what they’ll think.”

“You’ll have tainted yours and your whole family’s name. Either that or they’ll try to hide you. Or, even worse than that, they’ll try to kill you. You can’t die, Owen.” Peter shrugged. A smile tilted his lips upward, “That, and seeing you in such a great distress is quite the delight on my behalf.”

“If I knew you couldn’t just swim away, I’d throw you from this edge, you ungrateful hog, supernatural ties or not.” Owen snarled, his fingers closing tightly as he stared at the back of Peter’s head.

Peter stared down at the murky discolored waves crashing and thrashing against the cliff wall. The grey clouds swirled angrily around each other, fighting for dominance and creating haughty thunder claps.

He spoke only loud enough against the wind and the misty rain to be heard, "Owen, if this is what ties me to you, you better bet with your unnatural life that I'll figure how to break it and watch you fall into the abyss of Hell with a smile on my face. I'll push you from this cliff, and while you cling to me, begging for forgiveness, I'll merely smile and peel each finger back with slow grace." He lifted his head, but still didn't turn, "Prepare yourself, because you may be safe now, but not forever."

Owen’s breathing, though it was silent, was rapid in pace. His eyes hooded from the dark clouds, his hair, and his overwhelming anger. With no witty comment to discard Peter’s, he merely replied with gruff, “Looking forward to it.”



Jolting upright in her bed, a young fourteen year old girl with greyish green eyes and pale waves of hair gasped as if she’d been held under water for far longer than she was able to hold her breath. Sweat coated over almost every part of her body, cold and dribbling down the contours of her arms and cheeks as she focused on breathing correctly. The tears in her eyes worked their way into the sweat, slipping from her face in hybrid droplets.

Unsure of why she was crying, she felt her limbs begin to shake so violently, she could barely make out the details of her skin. Pushing the blanket against her mouth, she released another frightened sob. Perhaps it was the fact that she could feel everything happening to this Owen character, all of the anguish, all of the sizzling stings working their way through his entire body. Or maybe it was because she felt like she was held captive in this long lost memory of someone else, having to witness it all in fine detail. She couldn’t decide between the two.

Wiping the tears and sweat from her face, she reached out to her bedside table and switched the lamp on before grabbing a leather bound journal and the black ink pen beside it.



I dreamt about them again. This time, though, they fought and I found out their names are Owen and Peter. Something crazy is happening to them, and I can’t tell if this is a repressed memory that I’m meant to see or if this is my imagination running rampant. I really hope it’s the latter, because… I’m scared.

I don’t want to be all seeing. I don’t want to be some kind of messenger. Who are these boys, why do I dream about them so much, and why have they changed from the last time I saw them to now? All of this is freaking me out big time, but what scares me the most is… If the day ever comes to me meeting one of them, will they know me as well as I know them?

Yours truly, and so scared I’m shaking,