I’m just an ordinary folk who lives a rather boring life … Or that’s what I believe and often tell to myself, because it’s obvious that I am nothing but that.
It’s true, as ever since my 13th birthday, the last time I will ever celebrate my birthday, confirmed it 100%, that I am the unluckiest and the universe hates me.
You see, I once have a family.
It was a happy and humble family of four, until I came along and everything collapsed one by one.
The day my parents and eldest siblings get to know my mother was carrying me; everything went to mayhem.
It started with my eldest sister who was recently in the peak of her career. She got baited by a false love, used by a young cruel man who were in fact selling valuable information to other companies under my foolish sister’s name. She got fired and fined, only to know later on that her man not only disappeared but also left behind tones of debt to her, ultimately drowning her with broken heart and empty pockets.
In weeks both my parents have used up their savings and even planned to sell our house to start a new, only that the young man have actually spread far more sinister things to break my sister, and it did.
There were rumors and scandals about my sister, overall tarnishing her chance to have a new job, and to start over. People believe what they hear first and it didn’t take time for our neighborhood to be dangerous for us. Rumors flies fast, gossips turned to threats and threats lead to violence. At every chance they get, people would vandalize our home to the point that it became dangerous to stay any longer.
In the end, she was blinded by a false love, the pain of betrayal, the loss and the anxiety bombarding her, overall pressuring my sister to take her own life.
Even then the police merely repeated “They can’t do anything about it”
“There aren’t any evidences. Minimum would be ten years in prison.”
“Taking her own life doesn’t make the fines and debts go away.”
By that time my parents not only sold their house and cars, they also sold off their small restaurant in the city, which both of them worked hard to built, all in all using to clear all the debts. Not only that, but my parents were also forced to bury my sister in secrecy before hastily moving away to a distant town, were it's safer, or so they thought.
It was a small quiet town, miles and miles away from any city, and where approximately five hundred people resides in, hence in this place, pregnancy is something to admire about. You could imagine how that went well for the small family who is still broken by the death of their eldest daughter and hoping to start over in a place where no one know them, or so that’s what they thought.
Like how it goes, everything was going well at first. People were very affectionate to the small yet brave family who left behind life in the city, and chose to raise their babe in a small village, where it isn’t any easier.
It wasn’t even that long when they learned how this small brave family are deep inside broken and all troubled. Look at my Elder brother, he would always fight everyday with my parents, desperately begging and crying why he had to leave his school, his friends, and his life behind to live in a barren place.
It’s quite a surprise that my mother hadn’t miscarriage me with all of the negatives in the house, but what started soon ended.
A week later, my brother got fed up, left back to the city all by himself without telling anyone, ultimately severing his ties with us.
We never heard anything of him since then, well, until he did finally return a month before my birth, only that he was ashes in an urn instead.
It wasn’t until that moment we learned that my brother has been keeping a secret, a secret which he has brought along to his grave, of how his days were actually counted.
He knew even before my sister’s death, that his time was not ticking any slower, leaving him less than a year, but then my sister went first, and seeing the troubled parents, how could he dare bring them more pain? He had only forgotten how secrets don’t remain secret, because truth reveals itself.
We were a broken family, followed by tragedy wherever we go, the people of the town have concluded that eventually. It was already suspicious to have a family coming into a desolate town, where news even travels much faster, thus everyone learned my brother’s death like a blitzkrieg.
However that wasn’t the only reason to avoid us like a plague, as to those who pays attention, they noticed that whenever they bless the unborn child, they in turn get unfortunate, either get sick, lose important things, have fight, weather goes terribly bad, get into accident and even scarier, some whom touch the unborn babe in the mother’s womb, strangely died one by one, one way or another.
Even if my own parents noticed it all, they wouldn’t want to lose another innocent child.
Unfortunately, the peaceful town soon erupted and became chaotic with sudden deaths all because of that cursed family and child, thus, it didn’t take long for the people to drive out my parents, who are still mourning the loss of their daughter and son. Thank fully some of the townsmen have respect for the dead hence given my parents time, only then when it was time to leave, my mother’s water broke.
Hence, the day I was born, my mother died.
One opened their pair of eyes only for the other pair to forever close.
My father, was torn apart, that you could hear not only his heart, but his whole soul shattering to pieces as he wails. Too torn apart for loosing his career, family, his daughter, son, and then his dearest wife. He was too torn apart to raise an “innocent” crying babe in his arms.
The town watched my father crumble down, they even gossiped clearly how my father was extremely close of killing both me, with him together, only if the towns spokesman didn’t interfere.
After some 'peaceful times' suddenly, those who were eager to throw out the ‘plague’ family before, couldn’t bear watching the cruel fate of such innocent child. It’s no wonder why my father was somehow able to raise the child in three years. Three years where so far nothing bad happened ever since, well, except to my father, because everyone knows he was next.
He wants to escape and I was just an additional cursed luggage tagging along with him. He had almost wanted to leave me behind, but not in the watch of all of these people, hence after quite some time, we went back to the city, hoping that he can forget everything as he drowns himself with work, if not alcohol or drugs.
Eventually leaving his three-years-old child in the hands of his parents. This people who are also in their own way, delusional of losing their grand children.
Was I abused? Not really, because I was instead tormented and for a child, you won’t even know that you are, especially when you don’t understand everything yet.
All I remember is that once I turned four, these grand parents who were adept at ignoring my existence finally decided I was to be blamed. Everyday they grew expert at cursing my existence and somewhere along there, I could hear my father cursing at me too.
My existence was too much to bear for all of them, especially with my close resemblance to my mother, which brings pain and hatred more than joy.
I was the one who killed her after all, it’s no wonder he turns on a blind eye when I am all too bloody.
Bloody. Everyday you’d never see me not deformed with wounds across my face, my back and every inch of my body that they could hurt. I bet I would’ve died already had they not decided to keep things under radar and sent me to ‘school’. School which somehow lessen the wounds, or mostly make them less obvious.
Have you heard about carrot and stick policy? Well I did, because apparently those once a year moment, where they would give me a carrot, later known to me as ‘cake’ was to keep my mouth shut. At the time, even if one of the disgusted maids told me that cakes are for birthdays, I remember not caring any less, since for me it was a lifeline, not a cake, much less a celebration.
Now that I think about it, those aren’t even cakes, as cakes don’t have curses written on them, but nonetheless the young me ate it all, knowing that it would be a long time before I could eat again. Hence swallow after swallow, using both of my hands, even if I were to choke, I hurriedly eat it all, other wise it would be taken away and I have to eat it all before my father could see it, which always make him more….
Time pass by incoherently, but I guess I ate about a total of four or five cakes and how glad they were that I haven’t said anything.
Funny how I never really did since the very beginning and even if I did, I know all too well how there won’t be anyone listening to me. More importantly I also get less wounds when I don’t speak, let alone breathe.
This ‘school’ however isn’t any different than that prison, as I am still tormented, only that it was more mentally torturing.
You see, reality proved it to me that it’s just me, who was bad.
I was a bad child hence why I never have a mom, a dad, a brother, a sister, or friends like those kids to go home with. Each of those I will never ever know because I cause bad things to happen.
Look at my family, they all died because of me.
Look at the kids who try to get close to me, they always get hurt.
In my hands are the blood of my family and people I’ve killed by merely existing.
I am a murderer.
A disease that shouldn’t have been born.
I don’t know how long it was, or if they were just too old and had enough, but at some point, my grand mother and grand father died, month’s apart. Their remaining money and wealth transferring to their only child, which was my father. My father whom spend it more on alcohols, drugs and women.
I’ve never seen him once a month or unless he brings back women, those women who doesn’t treat me any better.
Well, expect for one.
A bright, cheerful lady, who comes back to check up on me in spite being my dad’s one-night stand and despite the fact that those who I contacted with always have something bad happening to them.
But not to Sara!
Is she immune? I don’t know.
In fact, I don’t know anything about her, other than she used to be an orphan and seeing a young child like me, reminded her of her harsh past.
One way or another, we grew closer and stuck together.
I’ve almost thought that life isn’t actually cruel and I am not bad, until that night.
The night me and Sara were celebrating my 13th birthday, my Dad showed up, drunk and full of hatred, because my birthday is my mother’s death anniversary.
I am a fool for forgetting that.
At the sight of the cake and me, he went more violent. He was mad and then those heavy palms also strike her. I then did what Sara taught me to do in case this happen. I called the police and then hid.
There were screaming, banging but then the next thing I heard was a bottle of wine being smashed, and then silence….
It was my turn next
But then the police charged in and caught my dad red handed. He was taken by them and a day later I saw a man with long white coat, explaining to me that, Dad is gone.
Accident he said. The car they were on that night fell on the steep bank on their way, as the weather suddenly turned bad.
The two officers who were there, managed to survive, but my dad unfortunately didn’t. He may have implied my dad, took his life, but that matter didn’t sink in me more than it did with that word.
Everyone hates me because I cause bad things.
I am a bad thing.
Why was I born?
As a lost child, I was guided by that man with the long white coat. I didn’t even care where he would take me, or if he will kill me, a part of me hoped he will, but instead he helped me bury Sara and took me in.
Ironically, the wealth of all people I’ve killed, my sister’s (what’s remaining, her clothes), my brother’s, my mother’s, my grandparent’s, my dad’s and even Sara’s all went to me, because apparently, I never did have any cousin as dad was the only child and my mother and Sara are both orphans.
Orphan, that’s probably a thing that motivated my mom to give birth to me, only that it took her life as a payment. It took Sara’s too.
I took it.
I killed them.
How I wish I was never born in this world.
I was a troubled child with enough money to support me through college. If I study best, I would have everything I want, life would be better and my family would be happy for me.
That’s what Mr. Collins would often say to me, the person who took me in, who were also a doctor, specifically, a psychiatrist who help kids like me.
Kids like me? I don’t think so, because I am the only one who causes bad things to happen.
Why am I alive?
A question plaguing my mind over and over.
I don’t recall the reason why Mr. Collins did it but with a new name, he made me forget them and somehow, I stopped causing bad things to happen.
As the years went blurred, I was able to live a stable and ordinary life like the others.
I went to school, studied, made friends, made memories, graduated, got a job, pursued my dream career and built my future. But in spite of not recalling those memories, somewhere deep inside me increases the gaping hole, and along with it are whispers and wishes how better it would be had I not been born in this world.
Because the blood in my hands will never disappear even if I changed my name.
Mr. Collins have his own family.
It’s a given that once I’ve reached my 18th I soon have to live on my own and I did.
He and his family does drop by from time to time, and for that I am more than thankful, because a part of me is glad that they remember someone like me.
Days, months and years passed by, I realized that I am already 25 years old. Cold and still alone. Doing what most people do everyday, get up for work just to die another day.
I was a robot until I stumble upon that bizarre yet intriguing TV show.
Life has a funny way dealing with everyone, take mine for instance because a TV show somehow ended up becoming a reason for me to hold on for just a little while longer.
I was sick, you know? I was ready to end it all but then I have to pause that aside in the moment because of a TV show. Hilariously ironic, that.
I work a minimum total of 40 hours per week, from Monday to Friday. Even though I am not a morning person, I spare and wake up four hours early before my shift. I know that’s a lot of time where I could choose to sleep more but that TV show means something to me. For once in my life, I could feel it.
Thus everyday, I quickly get up, fix my bed, wash my face, brush my teeth, make and eat breakfast while watching them all with those first two (three) hours. The next hour I would be grooming my self, such as taking a bath, brushing teeth, before trying to look decent and presentable with my clothes as I go to my work thirty minutes early, where if I’m good to standby, could re-watch it again.
That’s my basic routine ever since.
Sure, I am insane, call me whatever you want, because I admit arriving thirty minutes early for a job you aren’t even that deeply passionate about, much less a job that could easily replace you, or for a weird reason to re-watch what I was just watching few hours ago, is indeed obsessive insanity. But I adhere to Mr. Collins, for he is always right, because when I am rushed, it’s never a good thing.
I may have forgotten that I cause bad luck, but that doesn’t mean it stopped completely. And whatever magic voodoo did Mr. Collins casted on me, well, it went kaput.
It is however a morbid coincidence that I’ve watched and re-watched its last season’s last episode yesterday. No wonder what I’ve put aside is now due, or rather way over due.
The stop light that was green a second ago, flickered and turned red midway I was in the intersection. Yes, I am rushed, but I was paying attention because it was not only my car that moved forward, but also the cars in the back and beside me on the same lane. It was however too late of me to reverse back nor move forward as a semi-truck on the other lane, is inches away to T bone me.
Strangely, I am calm.
Do you believe how your life flashes in your eyes when you are about to die?
Well, you should, as this entire time I was recalling every haunting childhood memory I actually chose to suppress until now. It was called self hypnosis. What would a PTSD patient often does to themselves.
Coincidentally, the truck driver and me, both met one another’s eyes, and I could feel that he’d be alright.
So, I smiled to myself.
Ironically for the first yet last time of my existence.
I am glad, that I have no one for once.
Sure, Mr. Collins or his family might be those people, but most of the time its all professional circumstances, and I know Mr. Collins also kept me because of the wealth under my name.
What’s more, my life could be entirely different if Mr. Collins wasn’t the one who helped me, not that I would care if I die in the streets at that time, anyways.
In this world where my existence cause nothing but harm, I am glad that my death would help them. Take it as a payment for caring to a stranger like me into their lives when they didn’t have to.
If only I was not born in this world in the first place.
Even in my last moments I am still causing troubles.
Imagine how many people are being delayed because of me?
It’s why I always preferred to take my own life even if it didn’t work numerous times, because dying without leaving a mess is preferable, but I guess I’ll take whatever I can have? Who am I to complain after all?
Out of the corner of consciousness, I heard noises, screams, loud tires screeching, an ear shattering banging sound, glass shattering, followed by extreme pain.
And then I faded.
What happens after you die?
No one will ever know completely, but I could tell one thing for sure, it’s cold.
Or its just a voice muttering to me,
“Wish has been granted.”