Cursed Cold
8.
The next day Cain snoozes by my side. I wake up and dress myself once more, and then I head downstairs. I eat some of the cookies my neighbor gave me. They taste sweet and loving, and before I know it, tears begin rolling down my cheeks. My heart breaks with them, and my shoulders rack back and forth. I'm sobbing now. A silent cry that no one, not even me, will hear.
"Leila?"
I whip my head away. I'm cold, and I'm sad, and I'm hungry. I have some chocolate smeared on my fingers, the only color that exists in this house. I hear Cain's padded feet tread across the floor, and he jumps on the stool next to me. I avoid looking at him.
"They say cookies are good for the soul," Cain says.
I wipe my tears away.
"Actually, that's a lie. That's something I used to say. I believe it's true, though."
I push the box of cookies near him and open it up. Cain waves it away with his paw, a surprisingly human gesture. "It'll kill me," he says. "Chocolate is bad for cats."
I leave and grab my writing pad off the floor where I left it. Cain follows me, his tail swishing. I write, How can you lift my curse?
"Simply," he says. "I know who laid it upon you."
I grit my teeth and smash the pad on the floor. The pen in my hands breaks and bleed ink onto my palm. Liar! I want to scream. You're a liar!
Cain flinches at my silent outburst. "You - you don't believe me?" he whispers.
I take what's left of the pen and scribble more words on the pad. The words are blotchy like blood splatter. The person who inflicted my curse is long dead. They inflicted it on my great-grandparents, my grandparents, my parents, and me, there's no way they can survive that long.
"You would be surprised," Cain says. "She's not human."
There's no such thing as non-human beings.
"Sure there is. You're looking at one."
I crumple up a wad of paper and throw it at him. He dodges it, but his ears lay flat on his head, wounded, like I'd actually hurt him. "I'm sorry," he says. "I shouldn't have made a joke like that."
I'm not listening though. I'm furiously scrawling on the paper, my handwriting like chicken-scratches, and the black ink flows freely onto the paper. It stains the whiteness and drips onto the carpet. I don't care. Cain must know he is attempting the impossible. There is no way to save me. No way.
There have been others like you, Cain. People have come in this house for generations saying the same things you have. First were my great-grandparents, a man came to the door and said if they helped him, he would free them. He was dark and handsome with honey-like words and a convincing smile. They trusted him and did as he said. "All you have to do is kiss me." Then he ended up cursing their next generation, binding them to this same house.
Then came my grandparents, bound to this house, and a handsome man came at the door just like this one, offering sweet words of restoration. "Yes, you will be able to smell the flowers again, see the sun, visit the ocean, eat real food," he said. His words moved something in them. Their hunger liked the words. The hunger drank up his words. And he said the deal, "All you have to do is kiss me." So they did. And the curse moved onto my parents.
And so my parents were bound to this house and all its lifeless magic, starving, and a man came to the door. They'd heard of the stories of my grandparent's and great-grandparents and remembered what they did and how it ended. But this man was beautiful, handsome, and insisted on staying. They thought, carrying their child in their arms, "I want to take her to school one day and experience the life with her outside this house. Maybe this one will help." And the man said, "All you have to do is kiss me," and of course they did. The curse went onto me.
My family's bones are still in this house.
I breathe hard, my chest expanding and contracting like the billows for a fireplace. Cain reads the paper, all of it, and finally gazes into my eyes. His ears are down. "So of course you won't believe I'm not the one," he says.
I snatch the paper and rip it up.
"You don't have a child, though," he says. "I won't be able to curse any next generation without a potential child."
I glare at him and he knows my answer. He lowers his head and sighs.
"I only have one day left," he whispers.
I get up and leave to the ballroom again.
"Leila?"
I whip my head away. I'm cold, and I'm sad, and I'm hungry. I have some chocolate smeared on my fingers, the only color that exists in this house. I hear Cain's padded feet tread across the floor, and he jumps on the stool next to me. I avoid looking at him.
"They say cookies are good for the soul," Cain says.
I wipe my tears away.
"Actually, that's a lie. That's something I used to say. I believe it's true, though."
I push the box of cookies near him and open it up. Cain waves it away with his paw, a surprisingly human gesture. "It'll kill me," he says. "Chocolate is bad for cats."
I leave and grab my writing pad off the floor where I left it. Cain follows me, his tail swishing. I write, How can you lift my curse?
"Simply," he says. "I know who laid it upon you."
I grit my teeth and smash the pad on the floor. The pen in my hands breaks and bleed ink onto my palm. Liar! I want to scream. You're a liar!
Cain flinches at my silent outburst. "You - you don't believe me?" he whispers.
I take what's left of the pen and scribble more words on the pad. The words are blotchy like blood splatter. The person who inflicted my curse is long dead. They inflicted it on my great-grandparents, my grandparents, my parents, and me, there's no way they can survive that long.
"You would be surprised," Cain says. "She's not human."
There's no such thing as non-human beings.
"Sure there is. You're looking at one."
I crumple up a wad of paper and throw it at him. He dodges it, but his ears lay flat on his head, wounded, like I'd actually hurt him. "I'm sorry," he says. "I shouldn't have made a joke like that."
I'm not listening though. I'm furiously scrawling on the paper, my handwriting like chicken-scratches, and the black ink flows freely onto the paper. It stains the whiteness and drips onto the carpet. I don't care. Cain must know he is attempting the impossible. There is no way to save me. No way.
There have been others like you, Cain. People have come in this house for generations saying the same things you have. First were my great-grandparents, a man came to the door and said if they helped him, he would free them. He was dark and handsome with honey-like words and a convincing smile. They trusted him and did as he said. "All you have to do is kiss me." Then he ended up cursing their next generation, binding them to this same house.
Then came my grandparents, bound to this house, and a handsome man came at the door just like this one, offering sweet words of restoration. "Yes, you will be able to smell the flowers again, see the sun, visit the ocean, eat real food," he said. His words moved something in them. Their hunger liked the words. The hunger drank up his words. And he said the deal, "All you have to do is kiss me." So they did. And the curse moved onto my parents.
And so my parents were bound to this house and all its lifeless magic, starving, and a man came to the door. They'd heard of the stories of my grandparent's and great-grandparents and remembered what they did and how it ended. But this man was beautiful, handsome, and insisted on staying. They thought, carrying their child in their arms, "I want to take her to school one day and experience the life with her outside this house. Maybe this one will help." And the man said, "All you have to do is kiss me," and of course they did. The curse went onto me.
My family's bones are still in this house.
I breathe hard, my chest expanding and contracting like the billows for a fireplace. Cain reads the paper, all of it, and finally gazes into my eyes. His ears are down. "So of course you won't believe I'm not the one," he says.
I snatch the paper and rip it up.
"You don't have a child, though," he says. "I won't be able to curse any next generation without a potential child."
I glare at him and he knows my answer. He lowers his head and sighs.
"I only have one day left," he whispers.
I get up and leave to the ballroom again.