Cursed

Apart from car racing, nothing stimulates me more than riding my Ares Whisper in time for sunrise. My thighs clinging on the tank of the classic motorcycle and my body leaning forward, I race against the wind. This is my morning ritual, except today, I’m hoping the wind will blow the forbidden questions dangling in my mind.

Not today. Not now. Think of the consequences.

But I have to ask her. I need to know.

The road is narrow and curvy with leafy trees lining either side. I lean to prepare for the corner ahead. As always, I forgive the overhanging branches hijacking most of the sunlight. In the distance, In the distance, the morning sun peeks out from behind the mountains. Faithful as always, it brightens another one of my rides. The warmth of its rays penetrate my khaki jumpsuit, warming my skin, just the way I like it. I’m mesmerized by its golden glow, but I must turn back home. Today’s Saturday, which means a mandatory mother-daughter breakfast at exactly eight o'clock. The word “late” does not exist in my mother's dictionary.

“Tardiness is disrespectful, Alexandra,” she once told me, using my full name. Mother only uses my full name when she’s beyond pleased, or very annoyed.

Toes steady on the foot pegs, right leg pinned on the gas tank, hands tight on the handlebars, I lean in to take a steady turn.

One glance at the hill ahead and I smile. The motorcycle jostles over the rough tar, engine cries while my body yearns for speed.

Past the sharp turn, I ride uphill. I’m aiming for the top, and through the orchards, the engine wails up the steep incline.

Another loud scream from the engine, and I slam on the brakes. I’m at the top now, and I gaze below. River Stills enhances the beauty of the city and the huge private estate that sits on a high hill, overlooking the cityscape of Ashbourne. The Stills residence is home to the founders of Ashbourne city, the Van-Baileys.

Though my heart prefers views of the natural world—the mountains, tranquil waterfalls, and green lands—I still appreciate the glass skyscrapers, in particular at night when the lights sparkle on the rivers.

It’s downhill time—time to play with the wind. I start the engine again, ready to go. My head buzzes as I await the thrill. I roll the throttle for more speed. My heart is thrashing hard now, excitement rushing through my veins. Adrenaline flashes down my spine, my cheeks numb from the strong air current. I pull out a smile. For a second, I glance down to check the speedometer. I stare back ahead, and in the middle of the road stands a giant dog. No, it’s too large to be a dog.

A shiver snaps my tendons taut, locking my joints as the dark, furry animal stares right at me. Its eyes are the color of the sunrise, and they hold my gaze as if to dare me.

I should brake. I should slow down, I must stop now, but my hands are locked rigid, my legs, numb. An inch from hitting the animal, I veer to the side, and the front wheel slams on the steel barriers, the momentum ejecting me into the air.

I fling through the air, dazed, and come down to land my head on a sharp rock. In my mind, I rerun the accident and try every possible way to override the moment of the crash, but with each time, I end with my head on the rock. I’m not sure which hurts most; my head or my leg stuck between the barbed wire attached to the poplar tree.

Shit! No helmet. Mother is going to kill me.

I choke and swallow a lump of bittersweet liquid. A sudden warmth trailing down my neck frightens me. I try to raise my arm, but I can’t feel my fingers, or my legs. Stinging shivers arrest my spine.

Is it the scorching sun, or is my blood boiling?

A drop of blood from my nose burns my lips. The sun is too hot, too bright; I can't keep my eyes open. My heart is taking too much time to beat. When it beats, it hurts. I choke once for air before darkness swallows me.

The sound of a heart thudding brings me back to consciousness. It’s my heart, and it throbs quicker and stronger than usual. I’m not dead? Thank God.

“It worked again.” I mumble, thinking of the first time, I healed miraculously.

I was nine when I accidentally burned my hand. After a moment of pain, the wound healed right before my eyes, leaving no sign of any injuries. My mother and Grandpa Henry—her father—had explained that I was unique.

“A unique human being,” they said.

What does a unique human being mean?

A question I’ve tried to ignore for a long time. The last time I asked my mother, we ended in a big row, and I had to live with Grandpa Henry in his ranch in Viennamo, Africa.

Today, I plan to ask my mother, again, but that will only work if get home in time for breakfast.

With the sun still fighting to dry the dew on my arm, I know I haven’t been here for long. There’s an unusual strength in my bones. Wondering about the strange dog, I’m flexing my fingers when a weird presence triggers goose bumps all over me.

“Alexandra…,” a woman whispers. “Alexandra.” The soft voice sounds unreal; it’s everywhere and yet nowhere.

As if I’m not in control of my body, I spring to my feet with ease, then turn in search of she who calls.

“Alexandra.” The voice calls again.

I turn around, and a woman wearing a radiant smile stands in front of me. From the long silver robe with a gold binding, I’m sure she’s not of this world. I want to run, but her sparkling silver eyes hold not only my gaze, but the whole of me.

“Fear not, child. I’m not here to hurt you.” She stands at ease with hands together.

“Who are you?” My voice comes out fainter than a whisper.

I examine her as she moves nearer. She shifts her pale arms to her side, and I notice her white ghostly hair. It flows in a smooth band, draping her right shoulder, then circles her waist like a wide belt. Now I know whom she is; the woman my mother said would appear to me.

“Na’ir al Saif,” the woman spreads a smile, “you’ve grown into a beautiful lady.”

“What did you call me?”

“Na’ir al Saif.” She tilts her head slightly. “The bright one of the sword. It’s a star named after you.”

“Named after me? My name is Alexandra Joanne Watson, and nothing in that name says Na’ir or sword.”

She laughs. “There’s the attitude that’s proves you are exactly whom I say you are.”

“What do you want from me?” I lower my gaze to her feet, but they are hidden underneath her robe sweeping the ground.

“Tell Mia I said, its time.” Before I can ask what she means, her face beams, and it’s almost as if she wants to sing. “It’s good to see you again, Na’ir Saif.”

Without waiting for my answer, she disappears.

I quiver as I blink to reality, and inhale a few quick breaths.

As I examine myself, I’m thinking everything is okay until I notice the floral pattern of my heels covered in dust. I should have worn trainers. That is merely a minor regret because as much as I love speed, I love my heels.

I’m late for breakfast, but thank God for Lynette, I have a good reason now. Only what Lynette said has made me more eager to know more about the human kind I am—if I’m at all human. I like to think myself as human, I always do. To feel, to care, love, hurt, hate, that should prove me human.

I dust the sand off my legs, turn and find my phone next to my damaged bike. Home is just a few streets over, but I’m thinking the blood in my hair might scare innocent kids on the way. June is too early to play Halloween, but who cares? I can make this a trial run.

I prop the bike up with little effort and try to start the engine. It fires once but shuts down at once. I try again, but nothing happens. Jamie, from our usual garage can help, but who needs the endless questions. Besides, I’m strong enough to roll this home, except I wonder how I’m going to pull a motorcycle in my heels. To remove them off is not an option.

From the long, hilly road, I take the last turn on Vine Lane, rolling the bike under the usual dense foliage of trees. Sparks of sunlight penetrate through the leafy canopy while the birds twitter in the branches. Right and left, houses stand secured behind towering gates.

It would be friendly to shout ‘good morning’ to the neighbors if not for the high fences, hedges, and acres of well-groomed gardens that separates each house.

From the distance, I see a 'for sale' sign, and know I'm home. Named and not numbered, Edward, the Georgian estate next door—a house like ours—has been for sale for over a year now.

In front of Elizabeth, Vine Lane, I press the gate remote control and the steel gates open. As I pull the bike on the paved driveway, I ignore the manicured lawn to cast my eyes on the ivy creeping outside the walls of my mother’s bedroom. My heart begins to race as I imagine her standing by the balcony, but I know at this time she should be at the back garden.

After leaving the bike in the garage, I take a few deep breaths then make my way through the wooden arched doorway of the main entrance.

The yellow-beige stone walls of the spacious foyer seem brighter with the sun beaming through the airy breakfast room adjacent to the kitchen. I’m calm enough now to take in the hunger-calling aroma of fresh scones and drip brewed coffee. Calm enough to hear the noise of my heels on the solid wood floor, so I remove them with care not to leave dirt on the hardwood.

A few silent steps and I draw closer to a butterfly palm, flourishing in an aged ceramic pot fixed in the sunny corner. Next to it is a hand-carved console table reflecting in the giant mirror on the opposite wall. I stop to check for any possible marks from the accident. Apart from the blood on my jumpsuit, and in my hair, I see no visible marks or blemishes. Instead, I look better than before. My lithe body appears firmer, the high cheekbones enhancing my oval face.

If accidents enhance me like this, I should only need a couple more to fix my sharp nose.

“Miss Lexie!” Marie, our housekeeper appears behind me. I had no idea she was due back from her leave today. “Marie? What a surprise.”

Marie backs off when I reach out to hug her, examining my hair. “What happened?”

“Shh.” I place a finger to my lips and note the silver tray in her hand. I’m guessing she’s coming from the breakfast table outside by the porch “How do I look?”

She widens her piercing brown eyes. “Like a ghost. You must—”

“See my mother now, right?”

She nods, still scrutinizing me.

“How is she?” I whisper.

“Your name in every sentence, and yes, full names. What happened to you?”

“Long story.” I roll my eyes.

“That’s what Phoebe says to me when she’s trying to hide something.”

I grin. “How’s Phoebe?”

“Busy studying, like most eighteen-year-olds,” Marie says.

“Tell her to drop by so I can give her some tips.”

Marie laughs. “Like you did last time, spending two hours teaching her the Grand Prix?”

“What’s wrong with that?” I hold a laugh. “Who knows? She could be number two in the world.”

Marie chuckles and pats my shoulder as she walks away. “I’m sure we know who number one belongs to.”

“We sure do, Marie. We sure do.” I smile, making my way to my mother.

This is it. I try to compose myself. This is going to be a miserable morning. I can feel it.

I consider showering, but I rather Mother sees my bloody hair. That will distract her from my being late. Through the hallway, into the formal sitting room, I pause, gazing at a portrait. In it, my mother wears a delightful smile, proud of her achievements. I am proud of her too.

Below her image are the words, Maryanne Mia Watson, M.D.

In her eyes, I see that “I know what you’ve been up to, Alexandra” look. Most times I stop here to compose myself before meeting the real Maryanne.

I move on to the cozy living room, and step in the sunroom extending to the open porch, where my mother sits. She relaxes by the usual corner where she gets a clear view of her Japanese garden. Knowing that I’m late, even the tranquil sounds from the waterfall are not enough to calm her emotions. I reach the French doors. Through the transparent voile, I watch my mother as she adjusts her sunglasses, raises her bone china teacup for a sip, and continues to read the newspaper.

“Alexandra,” she says.

I shut my eyes and pull the door open. On the table in front of her is a selection of her favorite breakfast essentials—drip brewed coffee, scones with clotted cream, and strawberries.

She keeps her head down, reading the paper.

“Morning.” I bend to kiss her cheek. “Did Marie tell you how radiant you look in that dress today?”

Still looking down, she ignores my comment and sighs. “I ask only for one thing, Alexandra. One thing—be here on time.” She folds the paper, takes her sunglasses off to stare at me.

Mother’s eyes widen, chest rising before falling as she crosses her arms. “Is this the best you could do? Adding some …what’s that in your hair? Chicken blood?” She shakes her head.

“It’s not chicken blood, Mother. It’s my blood.” I sigh.

“Of course it’s your blood.” She tightens her crossed arms. “What did you do? Cut your hand then wipe some blood in your hair, and wait for your hand to heal before coming to meet me.”

This time I grimace. “You really think I would stoop so low as to cut my hand just to give you an excuse for being late?”

“No, Alexandra, I want you to feel that it’s better for you to stoop that low than being late.” She unfolds her arms and leans towards me. “I won’t accept any reason whatsoever for you being late unless you’re actually late.”

“What if I had an accident? Maybe I tried to avoid hitting a giant dog, crashed, broke my neck and cracked my skull, just to wake up a few minutes later healed as usual—”

“You what?” She stares at me, searching my eyes then rises in haste. “Good Lord! Sweetheart…”The cushioned, rattan chair topples to the ground as she hurries to hold me.

“What happened?” Mother frowns, examining me with a doctor’s gaze. The tension on her face reduces the size of her smoky brown eyes. “Are you alright?”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “I’m okay. It's just—”

“Come sit down.” Mother takes my hands and leads me to sit by the table.

My mother is above average in height, but still a few inches shorter than I am. Her hair, dark caramel like mine, is just as long and wavy, but unlike me, she keeps hers always in an updo.

“I’m sorry about the chicken blood, I just thought—“”

“It’s fine, Mom.”

“Are you hurt? Tell me how it happened?” She reaches for my neck, my hair, and back to my arms.

“That’s the thing. I don’t know.” I let out a soft laugh.

“This is why I tell you to always wear a helmet.”

I shut my eyes for a few seconds. “Mother, this is hardly a helmet discussion.”

“You could have died.”

“I hate it when you do this. Why are you acting like you don’t know what I’m talking about?”

“We are talking about the accident, aren’t we?” Mother tilts her head.

I sigh. “I saw this strange woman,” I whisper.

“You run a woman over?”

“No!” I pause to check if Marie is anywhere close enough to hear us, then lean forward. “I mean the one you said I should tell you when she appears to me. Lache.”

With a raised brow, Mother blinks at me. “You saw Lache? How are you sure it was her?”

“She wore her hair like you said, over her shoulder and waist, like a belt. Besides, she told me her name.”

Mother’s eyes widen, her face paler than Lache when I saw her in the woods. She draws closer to me, takes my hands and holds them to her lips. “Tell me what she said.” Her voice sounds smothered.

I pause, watching her tearful eyes while she kisses my hands. “She didn’t hurt me,” I say, hoping that would comfort her.

“Of course, she wouldn’t.” Mother’s voice comes out faint. “She gave you a message for me, didn’t she?”

I nod. “’Twelve new moons and Alexandra should be ready, according to the agreement.’ What does that mean? ”

“It means she caused the accident. I think she knows what I’m up to.”

“Why would she do that?” I wondered. “She didn’t appear like she’s after my life.”

“She’s not.” Mother dabs a tear from the corner of her eye. “Part of you is still human. She wants you to lose your humanity sooner than we agreed.”

“What’s that you agreed on? And how do accidents make me lose my humanity?”

“Not the actual accident, but the healing.” She ignores my first question. “Each time you force your body to heal, it takes a bit of humanity. That’s why you tend to look firmer after healing.”

I think about her statement for a minute, then draw in a deep breath. “Mother, don’t you think it’s time I know what kind of creature I am?”

With a creased forehead, Mother clasps my hands to her chest. “You’re no creature, sweetheart. I told you before; you’re unique. That’s all you need to know, for now.”

“What harm is there in me knowing?”

“I want you to have a normal life because you won’t have it forever. It’s not fair that you should pay for my mistakes.”

“What mistakes?” I ask.

She sighs, not attempting to answer my questions.

“Is it so bad that I should become immortal? I mean I’, destined to, right?” Careful not to stir this into the row we had last time, I’m cautious of my tone.

“Yes, but you’re different, Alexandra, and believe me, I know what’s best for you.”

“I was hoping that maybe we could talk about that—about me. She called me Na’ir Saif.”

“She can’t keep her mouth shut, can she?” Mother mumbles. “Give me six months and I promise to tell you everything.” She begins to get ready to stand, picking her newspaper again.

“The same six months, you promised a year ago to tell me about my father?”

She kisses my cheek as she stands. “Knowledge is not always a pleasant thing, Sweetheart, especially when acquired at the wrong time.”

“So this is it. Walking away is your answer to everything?”

“Six months, Alexandra,” she says and squeezes my shoulder as she heads towards the French doors.

“Mom,” I stand as I call her.

She turns to answer me with a creased forehead. “What is it again, Lexie?”

“I’ve decided to tell Chan, I’m not completely human.”

She tilts her head, her eyes narrowed. “What brought that on? And what will you say when he asks what you are?”

“I’ll just explain things, somehow. We’ve been together for over a year now and I’m fed up of keeping a secret.”

With pursed lips, Mother shakes her head. “Don’t you think it’s too late now? Exposing yourself to him will not make him change his mind.”

Too late? “What do you mean change his mind?”

“Is that not what you’re trying …” Her eyes widen with the sudden realization. “Oh, you don’t know. I assumed he told you last night.”

“Told me what?”

Mother sighs. “Honey, I wish I could say, but it’s not my place.”

“Ha!” I snort. “But it’s your place to have secrets with my boyfriend?”

“All I’m saying is, before you expose yourself, perhaps you should wait until you hear what he has to say.”

“I don’t understand. Why did he tell you before me?”

“He just wanted my approval, I guess.”

“Approval? What’s there to approve?”

“I can’t say, honey; he will have to tell you himself.”

“You’re my mother, you should—”

“Lexie …” Mother blinks, then look over my shoulders.

I follow her gaze and see Marie by the French doors.

“Excuse me, Miss Lexie,” Marie says. “Channing is here.”