HÊR CURSE

The pain hit like a live wire under my skin. I jolted upright in bed, gasping, hands flying to my forearm. The mark was there again. Black lines spreading under the skin like roots, hot and wrong, pulsing with every heartbeat. It looked like a tattoo I never asked for. It felt like someone was dragging a knife along my veins. “Stop,” I gritted out, digging my nails into it. Stupid. It only made it worse. The heat flared, crawling up toward my elbow, and I hissed through clenched teeth. Sweat was already soaking my shirt. My room was dark, 3:17 AM on the clock, but the mark glowed faintly in the dark. Like it was alive. “Jimmy.” The voice came from inside my head. Low, familiar, infuriating. Her voice. I froze. My breath caught. “You can’t run, Jimmy.” I shot out of bed like the floor was on fire. My knees hit the carpet hard, but I didn’t care. I had to get away from it. From her. From the sound of her in my skull. Three months. Three months since I buried her. Since I watched the casket lower into the ground and told myself it was over. That I was free. Liar. I stumbled to the bathroom, flipped the light on, and braced myself against the sink. My reflection looked wrecked. Dark circles under my eyes, hair a mess, face pale except for the red, angry lines snaking up my arm. The mark pulsed once, twice, and the mirror fogged even though the water wasn’t running. “Not real,” I muttered. “Not real. You’re dead, Mira. You’re dead.” Saying it out loud didn’t help. It never did. I turned the tap on cold and shoved my arm under it. The water should have helped. It didn’t. The mark sizzled like the water was boiling, and I yanked my arm back with a curse. The skin was already raw. If I kept this up, I’d tear it open. She laughed. Not out loud. In my head. That soft, mocking laugh she used to use when I was being stubborn. “You miss me,” she said. “Admit it.” I slammed my fist against the counter. “Shut up!” Silence. For three seconds. Then the mark flared again, and my knees buckled. I dropped to the floor, clutching my arm, riding out the wave of agony. It felt like my blood was boiling. Like she was inside me, twisting everything. When it passed, I was shaking. And I was pissed. Three months of this. Three months of waking up to pain, of hearing her voice, of pretending I could live a normal life again. I’d thrown out everything that reminded me of her. Photos, letters, the necklace she gave me. I’d changed my number, moved apartments, stopped going to the places we used to go. It didn’t matter. She was still here. I got to my feet, my legs unsteady, and grabbed my jacket. If I stayed here, I’d go insane. I needed air. I needed out. The city was quiet at this hour. The streets were empty, the streetlights buzzing faintly. I walked without thinking, letting my feet take me. My arm throbbed with every step, but the pain was better than hearing her voice. Better than remembering. We met at the library. Stupid, I know. She was shelving books, I was there because my laptop died and I needed Wi-Fi. She smiled at me, asked if I needed help, and that was it. Two weeks later we were dating. Six months later she was gone. Cancer. Fast and brutal. One day she was laughing at my bad jokes, the next she was in a hospital bed telling me not to cry. “You’re too young to be this serious,” she’d said. “Live, Jimmy. Even if I can’t.” I didn’t live. I survived. Barely. I stopped walking when I realized where I was. The old apartment building. The one we shared for six months before she got sick. Stupid. Stupid. I should have left. Turned around, gone home, tried to sleep again. But my feet were already moving toward the entrance. The mark was quiet now. Too quiet. Like it was waiting. The door was unlocked. It always was. The landlord never fixed it. The hallway smelled like old carpet and dust. Nothing had changed. The same flickering light on the second floor, the same chipped paint on the walls. Room 4B. Our room. I stood outside the door for a long time. My hand hovered over the knob but didn’t touch it. “Don’t do this, Jimmy,” I told myself. Then I turned the knob. The apartment was empty. Of course it was. New tenants had moved in a month after Mira died. I’d made sure of it. I couldn’t stand the thought of someone else sleeping in her bed, using her mug, living in the space that still smelled like her shampoo. But something was different. On the coffee table sat a single white envelope. No name. No address. Just my name written in handwriting I’d recognize anywhere. _Jimmy._ My throat went dry. My fingers shook as I picked it up. The paper was cold. Older than it should be. Like it had been sitting there for years. I didn’t want to open it. I knew I shouldn’t. But the mark was burning again, and I heard her voice, clear as day. “Open it.” I tore the envelope open. Inside was a single photo. Us. Taken last summer, before the diagnosis. We were at the beach, laughing, salt in our hair. I had my arm around her shoulders, and she was looking at me like I was the only person in the world. I remembered that day. It was perfect. One of the last perfect days we had. On the back of the photo, in the same handwriting, were five words: _You promised me, Jimmy._ I dropped the photo like it burned me. I didn’t promise her anything. Not that. Not this. Did I? The apartment got cold. Too cold. My breath started fogging in front of me. The lights flickered, and the mark on my arm felt like it was being pulled, stretched toward the photo on the floor. “Jimmy.” Her voice was everywhere now. Not just in my head. In the walls, in the air, in the space between my ribs. “You said you’d never leave me.” “I didn’t!” I shouted, backing away. “You died, Mira! I didn’t choose this!” The door slammed shut behind me. The lock clicked. “Neither did I,” she said. The air in the room shifted. It got heavier, thicker, like I was breathing underwater. The shadows in the corner moved, stretching, taking shape. I knew what was coming. I’d seen it before in my dreams. In the moments right before the mark woke up. A figure stepped out of the darkness. Tall, familiar, wrong. Her face was Mira’s. Her eyes were Mira’s. But nothing about her was human anymore. Her skin was too pale, her smile too wide, her eyes too black. The demon wearing her face. It tilted its head, studying me. “You’re angry,” it said, using her voice. “Good. Anger keeps you alive.” I backed into the wall, heart hammering. “Stay away from me.” The demon laughed. The sound was wrong. Too many layers, too many voices speaking at once. “I am away from you,” it said. “I’m inside you. I’ve been inside you since the day she died. You felt it, didn’t you? The moment your heart broke, I slipped in.” “No,” I whispered. “Yes,” it said. “And now you’re mine. The curse is simple, Jimmy. As long as you remember her, as long as you love her, I live. And you live. Break the curse, and you both die.” My stomach dropped. “That’s not true,” I said. “That’s not how it works.” The demon smiled. Mira’s smile. It made my blood run cold. “Test me,” it said. It took a step forward. The mark on my arm flared, and I cried out, dropping to my knees. The pain was worse this time. Blinding. “Stop!” I gasped. “Stop, please!” “Break the curse,” the demon whispered. “End it. End us.” I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. All I could feel was the fire under my skin, the weight of her words, the memory of Mira’s face as she told me to live. Live. Even if I can’t. I slammed my good hand against the floor, trying to ground myself. “No,” I said. “No, I’m not doing this.” The demon crouched in front of me, close enough that I could smell her. Something like rust and roses. “Then love me,” it said. “Love me, Jimmy. It’s easier that way.” I looked up at it. At her. At the thing that had stolen my life and worn my dead girlfriend’s face like a mask. “I hate you,” I said. The demon smiled. “I know,” it said. “That’s why it works.” The pain stopped as suddenly as it started. The room went still. The lights stopped flickering. The door unlocked with a soft click. I was alone again. Just me, the photo on the floor, and the burning mark on my arm. I sat there for a long time, breathing hard, trying to get my head straight. She was gone. For now. But I knew she’d be back. She always came back. My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out with shaking hands. A text from an unknown number. _You can’t run, Jimmy. But you knew that already._ I deleted it. It didn’t matter. She’d text again. She’d call. She’d find another way to get to me. I stood up, legs shaky, and left the apartment. I didn’t look back. Outside, the sun was starting to rise. The sky was gray, heavy with the promise of rain. I had to get out of here. I had to find a way to break this. There had to be a way. But as I walked, I felt it again. The pull. The connection. The part of me that still loved her. The part of me that wasn’t sure I wanted to be free. Because if I broke the curse, I’d lose her for good. And I wasn’t sure I could live with that. My phone buzzed again. _Good morning, Jimmy. Did you sleep well?_ I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. The mark burned. And somewhere inside me, she smiled. --