Dance of the Cursed

Alister

We roll into the empty lot of the gas station as I try to ignore the throbbing in my head.

Listening to her talk for that long should count as a form of torture. And if conversation were a weapon, she'd be a war criminal.

She had not just been talking—but detailing. Exhaustive, minute, relentless details about anything and everything that wasn't important. She told me about the time her aunt got drunk and tried to baptize a cat. About a brand of soap her mother refused to use because it reminded her of funerals, the tragic downfall of her brief ballet ambitions, and a deep dive into the politics of middle school cliques, The time she almost ran away from home but got cold feet a block away and settled for crying behind a mailbox for an hour.

It was like watching someone turn their soul inside out but choosing only the most useless pieces to show.

I'd let her ramble, hoping the thread would eventually unravel. That maybe, if I just stayed quiet long enough, she'd slip—let something ugly and true fall out, like her dark family secrets or more about their corruption, details only she knows. But no. She danced around every secret like it was choreographed.

I should've let her sleep.

The late afternoon sun throws long shadows across the cracked pavement. The gas station looks like it's been sitting here since the dawn of time—bleached signs, peeling paint, and an old supermarket that leans slightly like it's tired of standing upright. Beside it, a tiny diner flickers with a single working neon letter.

I step out of the car and stretch my legs. Clara does the same on her side, stretching her arms overhead like a cat, eyes scanning the area.

"There's one," I say, stepping out of the car and point at an old security camera bolted above the supermarket's entrance. "Good angle. Covers the lot and the road."

Clara steps beside me. Her oversized black hat casting an uneven shadow over her face, "Perfect!"

"Now the question is," I say, "will the guy inside give us the footage that easily?"

She hums thoughtfully, adjusting the hem of her black romper. The outfit is cinched at the waist, the shorts ending high enough to show off the tops of her knee-high boots. "Leave the talking to me. We don't want him to think he's getting robbed. And if he still doesn't comply, then I'll just have to make him."

"Bribery?"

"Maybe," she answers, tossing me a sly smile. "You'd be amazed what people are willing to do for a few wads of cash."

I arch a brow, already predicting where this is going. "And if that doesn't work?"

Her smile curves wider. "Then I've got other methods."

I scoff under my breath.

She turns fully toward me. "What? I can be charming." Then, with a teasing tilt to her voice, she adds, "I could even charm you if I wanted to."

As if to prove it, She winks and runs a hand through her hair, attempting, I assume, a sultry hair flip—only to wince halfway through when a strand snags in the ring on her finger. She curses under her breath, trying to untangle it and not lose any more dignity.

I turn and walk toward the store, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of a reaction. Let her deal with it. I've got enough on my mind without indulging whatever performance she's putting on today.

As I push open the door to the store, a soft chime rings out, announcing my entrance to an otherwise silent space that smells like warm plastic and old gum.

Behind me, I hear the clack of her boots against the concrete as she rushes to catch up. There's a clerk at the counter, slouched on a chair, scrolling through his phone like the world outside could collapse and he wouldn't bother to look up.

I take a slow breath.

It's like trying to focus through a cracked lens. My thoughts keep bleeding into each other, forming a shape I've been trying hard not to see.

The pieces I have—the ones I've been avoiding—fit together too well. Clara's hints, the scattered information we've gathered, and the cold truth pressing at the edges of my thoughts all paint the same bleak picture.

That one of us might have to die.

I shake my head. This isn't a decision I can rush into at the moment. Not without being sure. It's not confirmed. Not yet. But it feels like the only answer that might fit.

If two girls in the past had these stones and one died, perhaps that allowed the survivor to pass on the items to someone else. Like a chain letter. Even if that isn't the case, the fact that these gems were embedded into our bodies at the same time means they might be connected. Wouldn't one of us dying break the connection?

"Come on. You know she hasn't figured it out yet. You have an advantage here." Helena's voice echoes, and I realize she caught onto it too.

And I hate the way her voice brings back lessons from the past that cling like oil slick and are impossible to scrub clean. Not that I'd ever want to.

Weak people hesitate. They waste time trying to find a way out. The strong do what needs to be done.

"She would kill you if it meant saving herself." Helena whispers next behind me.

I don't doubt that. Clara is selfish. She always has been. A survivor first, a decent person second—if at all.

And what does that make you?

A question echoes in my mind, uninvited. I push the thought aside and shove it back into the shadows where it belongs.

"Hello. Mind if we trouble you for something?" Clara asks the acne-faced cashier.

His posture shifts the moment he sees her—eyes lighting up like a moth spotting fire. He stands a little straighter, leaning forward on the counter.

"Not at all. What can I do for you?" he says, pretending at nonchalance.

As far as first impressions go, I hate him already.

Clara keeps her expression pleasant. "My friend and I stopped here last week—Saturday, the 5th of May, to be exact. We were here sometime after noon, and I think I might've dropped my phone in the parking lot. I was wondering if anyone turned it in."

She delivers it sweetly, perfectly balanced between polite and helpless, like she's done this before.

The guy squints, scratching at his temple as if the request requires deep intellectual labor. "Okay, so you're saying you lost your phone in the parking lot? On Saturday, the fifth? I didn't see any phones get turned in. Did you report it to the police?"

Clara nods patiently. "I did. But they couldn't find anything, so I figured maybe it got stolen here. Could I...see the camera footage from that day? I just want to be sure. It'll only take a minute." She asks, flashing her blue eyes at the guy.

He sighs dramatically and shrugs. "Look, I'm not trying to be difficult," he says, which is exactly what he aims to be. "But we've got protocol for a reason. I'd need to see ID and get some official stuff written down before I can just show you footage."

This sleazy bastard. How stupid does he think we are?

I glance at Clara to see if she would fall for it, but it seems she understands the situation too, as her polite smile dulls at the edges, and something sharper flashes beneath it.

"I understand that you're just doing your job," she says, warmly, "but I'm willing to make it worth your while if you can help me out."

There's a glint in his eyes like a lighter being sparked—cheap, eager, and a little too pleased with himself, as he stares at her upon hearing those misleading words.

I don't think Clara is the kind of person who throws herself like that at people just to get what she wants. Or at least she hasn't faced such situations that I've seen.

It seems she had something else in mind as she digs into her purse. "How about I make a donation to the store's... employee appreciation fund?" She pulls out a wad of cash, and begins to peel off a hundred-dollar bill.

The man's eyes widen, and he leans over the counter towards her. "I don't know if that's necessary."

"Oh, I think it's very necessary," she says. "After all, I'm sure you want to help me find my phone." She adds another dollar and stretches it out to him.

"You really want that footage, huh?" He reaches out to grab the cash, but I catch the way he intentionally touches her hand. Fingers lingering longer than necessary.

The way he backs up and goes pale, like his life just flashed before his eyes, as the knife that flew past him, inches away from his face, strikes the hard wooden wall behind him, is surprisingly cowardly.

"Sorry, my hand slipped." I say with a mock innocence as I reach out over the counter, wrapping my fingers tightly around the knife's handle. He tilts his head to the side as I pull it away, purposefully close to his face, letting the sharp edge nearly graze his skin.

They both look at me with wide eyes and surprised looks, one filled with fear and the other in awe.

"Now, what were you saying?" I lean on the counter, using my elbows as support, and stroke the knife in my hand. I can see his throat bob as he swallows, struggling to find the words.

I stare right into his eyes. Daring him to do it again. Because this time, I won't purposely miss.

"Umm…" His voice cracks as he looks around, searching for an escape route. "Right. I–I'll be back. Please wait here." He says and walks away.

I follow him, watching his every move as he disappears behind the door marked "staff only."

It seems to be some sort of break room with two empty metallic chairs and a table. I see the guy rummaging through a drawer for something.

Upon seeing me, he straightens his back and tries to mask the worry in his eyes. "You're not allowed back here. It's a staff-only zone."

Seems ridiculous, as he is the only staff here right now.

I lean against the doorway, not coming in but not going away either. "What are you doing?"

"I'm looking for the hard drive. The computer has a low storage capacity, so we empty out the recordings into a hard drive after 20 days before deleting them permanently." He says as he continues looking around. "We recently emptied out the videos. So that footage is probably in there."

I stand here while keeping a close eye on him. Making sure he does nothing suspicious.

"Well, that was entertaining."

I look back to see Clara with a smirk, leaning against the counter, her eyes twinkling with that annoying mix of mischief and amusement. She's clearly waiting for my reaction. "Didn't know you cared so much about me, Alister."

I roll my eyes. "Don't worry. I still don't."

Clara's eyes narrow, clearly unconvinced. "Mhm. Sure. So you just threw a knife at a wall because, what? You didn't like the decor?"

"I was disgusted. Simple as that," I say, my voice sharp as I watch the guy rummaging through the drawer. "And I'd have done it for anyone, so stop flattering yourself."

She chuckles as she pushes herself off the counter, making her way to where I am, before leaning casually against the wall opposite me. "Right. Very noble of you," she teases. "A true man of the people."

I glance over my shoulder just enough to catch her smirk, the corner of her lips pulling in that way I've come to hate. My fingers twitch again, but I don't move. "Keep talking, and next time, I might not aim for a wall."

The guy looks up, relieved, holding a white hard drive in his hand. "Found it!" he announces. He walks briskly to the counter, plugging the drive into the monitor behind it.

"Here it is. May 5th," he says, stepping back, eyes flicking nervously between us and the screen. "Please, be quick about this. My manager will be here any second."

Clara doesn't hesitate. She steps forward, concentrating on the footage as she quickly opens her notepad. She starts fast-forwarding, checking the timing from her notes and matching it with the video.

The guy tries to stay calm, but I can see how uncomfortable my presence makes him. I meet his gaze with a friendly, almost too-polished smile, the kind that feels just a little too insincere.

"Say," I start. "Do you have any iced tea cans around here and...deep roast coffee powder?"

His eyes flicker back to me, unsure of where I'm going with this. "We do," he says, his voice more hesitant now. He points to a distance in the store. "Over there, in the corner."

I nod and pat him lightly on the shoulder. He stiffens at the contact. "Thanks, I appreciate you going to get it for me," I say, making it clear this isn't just a friendly request. I want him to leave.

Without another word, he turns. Walking quickly to the corner, close enough that I could see him but far enough to hear us.

"Hey, Helena." I mumble.

"What?" She answers.

"Follow him. Make sure he doesn't do anything suspicious."

While I don't know if she actually is a ghost or just my imagination, if I ask her to do tasks like these, maybe I'll get a clear answer.

She groans, taking 2 steps in his direction before disappearing into thin air.

"Here. It's this guy," Clara announces, pointing to the video.

A man with curly hair and a bearded face exits a car, carrying a box. So far, everything is according to the antique seller's story.

But there's something else. Something... familiar. I can't put my finger on it, but something feels off.

As she scribbles the car's plate number in her notepad, my eyes stay fixed on the guy in the footage. He runs back to his car after handing over the box, and I notice a small detail—the tattoo on his ankle. A black dollar sign.

"Stop."

Clara blinks in surprise, her pen halting as she looks up at me. "What is it?"

Honestly, I feel like laughing. I relate to people when they say the phrase it's a small world. I usually see it in movies, where the coincidence is just absurd. But today, I can actually feel the unexpected absurdity of it all. Because I never expected to see someone I know involved in something like this.

And by someone I know, I mean someone I saw dead.

"He's dead. No use following him." I whisper back.

She freezes like a deer caught in headlights, her eyes growing cartoonishly wide, flicking to the screen, then back to me.

"Wha… then… why!? What do we do!?" She cries, arms flailing halfway before she clamps them to her sides like she's trying not to explode. She chews on her thumbnail as she stares at the ground as if the answer is somewhere between the tiles.

I gently push her aside and rewind the video, keeping an eye on the man. The way he keeps glancing over his shoulder as he quickly gets into the car. It's like he's checking for anyone in particular.

He's being followed.

The moment when the other car enters the frame, that's where I stop.

Taking her notepad and pen, I quickly jot down the blurry plate number. After I finish, I proceed to delete today's confrontation with the knife, swiftly erasing anything that could trace back to us.

"Are you guys done now?" The guy asks, clearly impatient as he places our items on the counter. I manage to get the tab closed just in time, thanks to Clara kicking my shoe, urging me to hurry up.

"Yes. Thanks to you, we finally managed to see who took the phone," Clara says, and we walk away from the monitor. "Here's the payment for these." She places the cash on top of the items I requested, "And here's some more. For your troubles."

As soon as we step out of the store, Clara snaps her head towards me with a glare. "Why are you like this!? What, do you just go around killing everyone now?"

I start the car and watch her slide into the back seat. "It wasn't me," I mutter, trying to keep my tone level. "I remember seeing that guy on the news two days ago. A dead body was found with a gun wound to the chest."

"Another muderer, huh?" She mumbles to herself, staring out the window, but I hear her. "Honestly, what good does killing do? People like you just make up a reason to do whatever you want so that you can justify it."

I think back to the kids at the orphanage when the nun, who would treat the kids cruelly and wouldn't get fired because of her family's generous donations, committed 'suicide.'

The kind old man who now lives peacefully at an old–age home, away from his three sons who planned to poison him for inheritance. I still remember the screams of all three of them.

Something good does come from death in my experience. Even if what she said might be true.

She exhales a heavy sigh, running a hand through her hair. "Anyways, at least we got the plate number of the other car. I'll get someone to track down the location soon."

I nod but don't say anything.

"I don't think people like her will ever understand." Helena says lazily as she sits on the passenger seat, legs once again on top of the dashboard. "They're usually too engrossed in their own problems to care about anything else. Even if there's nothing, they'll create their own problems to ponder over."

I couldn't agree more.

Clara is staring out the window, quiet, lost in thought. And for a moment, I almost wish I could make her understand. That if she knew the truth, she could even get out of her own predicament. But I know, deep down, that it's not something that can be explained.

We sit in silence for a while. Outside, the world is drenched in the warm, amber glow of late afternoon. It's nearing six, that golden hour where everything—no matter how ordinary—starts to look like a memory.

Suddenly, I hear her breath hitch slightly. She presses her palms against the window.

The once-desolate stretches of dry earth are now replaced by something far more vibrant. Rolling fields of wheat ripple like liquid gold under the setting sun, while the dull greens of the grasslands have given way to bursts of color—wildflowers scattered in every direction like spilled pigment on a painter's palette.

"Are we going another way?" she asks, her voice quiet but filled with awe. "I don't remember seeing all this when we were leaving."

"It's the same way," I reply, keeping my eyes on the road. "You were too busy talking about movies."

I hear the subtle shift of her body and then the soft clatter of the sunroof sliding open.

"What are you doing!?" I snap. "Sit back down."

But she doesn't listen. She rises from her seat slowly, bracing herself with both feet planted firmly on the floor. Half of her disappears through the sunroof, and for a moment, all I can see is her black floppy hat and the way the wind immediately seizes her long hair, turning it into a banner of silk behind her.

Tilting her head back, one hand grips her hat tight, while the other lifts into the open air—palm up, fingers stretched wide—as though she's trying to catch the air itself.

The wind tugs at her, playful and wild, carrying the scent of blooming flowers and warm earth into the car. The fading sun bathes her in a soft golden light, setting her silhouette aglow like she's made of sunlight and wind and all the things that don't stay.

"The A/C is on, you know," I remark, forcing myself to look ahead.

"Ugh, shut up, will you!" She yells out, her voice nearly swallowed by the wind.

She opens her eyes slowly, just enough to take in the endless sea of wildflowers racing past us. There's a wide smile on her lips. It's the second time I've ever seen her this unguarded. Like she's happy to be alive to witness this. Like there's nothing complicated about her life.

...Have I ever felt that way?

I follow her gaze and wonder if this is one of those moments we all secretly live for. The kind we wish could last forever.

No cursed gems. No weight of family sins. No pasts filled with ghosts or futures built on shattered glass. Just a window of peace. A stolen breath between storms. Not wanting to drive back into the complicated parts of our lives. To deal with the mess. To deal with the mundane.

My heart skips a beat as I divert my attention back to the road, and my eyes widen in alarm, seeing someone standing in the middle. I slam on the brakes. The car screeches to a sudden halt, the tires skidding on the road as I struggle to avoid a collision.

Clara screams as the car lurches, her body jolting forward with the force. She scrambles to hold on, fingers clinging to the rim of the sunroof.

Once the car stops, she stares down at me, wide-eyed. Her chest heaves. I see the shock flash across her expression like a lightning strike.

"You did that on purpose, didn't you?!" She yells, her voice shrill with anger and fear.

However, right now, all I could think about was the person on the road. Or lack thereof. Because now that it's all coming back to me. I realize who or what I saw.

I would recognize that red tie anywhere.

He had stood there, drenched in blood with the sun shining on his bald head. The empty eye sockets and slices on his face made it look like the skin would fall off any moment now. His fingers were literal skeletons, with no skin or meat, poking out of his palms that had three metal nails lodged in them. Blood poured from his ears, his nose, and his mouth. Which I know has no tongue even if it wasn't opened. The copious amounts of blood poured from his abdomen and three gunshot wounds on his chest.

I try to calm down as I grip the steering wheel tightly. Like it'll helps anchor me or keep me grounded.

"Alister!"

Clara's voice slices through my spiraling thoughts like a whip. I jump, my pulse thundering in my ears.

Her narrowed eyes burn into me. Her hat is gone—probably taken by the wind. Her hair's a tangled mess, her cheeks flushed with adrenaline and fury.

"Why did you do it?" she demands.

I blink. "Didn't you see?…There was someone standing there." My voice sounds off. Distant. Like it belongs to someone else.

She raises a brow, looks around the area, and then back at me with that skeptical expression she wears a little too well. "There was no one. You suddenly stopped the car."

I turn around, eyes scanning the stretch of road again. Nothing. No blood. No body. No lingering trace of the thing I saw.

Why would there be? He died long ago. What am I thinking?

My throat tightens. It's not just the horror of what I saw—it's the shame that comes from memories being dug out.

"Did you see something again?" Clara asks curiously.

I don't answer. I quickly get out of the car to take a breather.

It's not real. It's not real. It's not real.

"Another hallucination I see." Helena appears in front of me with a concerned look.

"Stop it." I mumble as I run a hand through my head. I'd rather see anyone than that bald man and those spawns of Satan.

"It's not me. Haven't you noticed? Whenever you're with Clara, it seems the effects of the gem worsen. The hallucinations intensify. The lines between memory and manifestation blur." She deduces, looking deep in thought.

"Hey!" Clara calls again, her voice sharper this time. "What did you see?"

"...Where's your hat?" I ask.

The question catches her off guard. Her brows furrow, and she glances around, as if only just remembering. "It, um... flew over there." She points somewhere behind me, into the sea of flowers.

I nod, say nothing, and walk around the car. The flower field stretches endlessly around me. I look around as the flowers brush against my legs.

And then… my vision flickers.

Just a small stutter at first. Like a skipped frame in a film reel. But then it tears, like reality itself hiccupped. And suddenly—

I'm not in the field anymore.

I'm in a classroom.

My old classroom.

My tiny hands grip the edge of a desk, heart pounding. The walls are covered in colorful posters. Everyone is staring at me.

"Murderer," a girl in pigtails says, her finger jabbing in my direction.

"I knew it was him," someone mutters behind her.

"I don't want to be in the same class as him."

"Should we make a complaint or something?"

"Didn't you see the photos? He strangled it," another whispers, their voice full of horror. "With his own hands."

My mouth goes dry. "...that's not true." I gasp.

But they don't hear me. Their faces blur into sneers and disgust.

"Snap out of it!" I hear Helena's voice. And just like that—I'm back. Back in the field. Back under the sun. Back to my older self.

What just happened? Was it a hallucination… or something more?

I feel like I've been shaken to my core, like my whole sense of reality has been turned upside down.

"I don't think there's any other way. You know what to do." She says again. She looks really out of place among the flowers with her trench coat and glowing orbs.

My eyes scan the field again, forcing my mind to focus. Then I spot it. Behind a patch of bluebonnets, half-buried by petals, a shadow of black against the colors.

I quicken my pace. My fingers close around the soft fabric, and I pull the hat free. Clara's laughter from earlier plays in my head. I crush the memory and pull a knife from my pocket.

I can deal with the consequences later. It will be hard, but nothing I can't handle. These visions, though. Each one digs deeper than the last, clawing up pieces of me I thought I buried years ago. The more I see, the more I remember. The more I remember, the more I break.

I should nip this in the bud.

If one of us dies, the curse might break.

The sentence keeps replaying in my mind. Louder and louder. It's the only way to break the chain and be the one who survives.

If I kill her…I could be free. No more voices. No more hallucinations. No more past dragging me backward like chains wrapped around my throat.

My thumb brushes the edge of the knife.

Just one flick. And it would all be over.

Time seems to slow down as I raise the knife and turn around. But then—Crack!

A gunshot splits the air like thunder.

Pain jolts up my arm as the knife is ripped from my grasp by some invisible force. It spins through the air, a blur of silver, before vanishing into the sea of flowers.

I freeze, staring at my empty hand, ears ringing. My body is still here, but my mind's trying to catch up.

I turn slowly, my gaze dragged to the source like a magnet.

Clara is still leaning halfway out of the sunroof, both arms resting on the roof like she's lounging at a picnic. Smoke curls up from the barrel of the gun in her hand.

My gun. From my glove compartment.

She flashes a satisfied little smirk. Blows the smoke from the barrel like this is all some casual stunt. "Nice try," she calls out, leaning forward and resting her chin on her hand. The gun doesn't lower.

My stomach twists. Don't tell me she figured out the way to break the curse too.

"To answer your past question," she goes on. "Yes, I do know how to shoot. I'm actually a great shot." She shrugs. "Just because I don't hunt for sport doesn't mean I won't shoot anyone who raises a weapon at me."

My own words come back to haunt me—the ones I spat at her back in the cabin.

You've never shot anything. Either you're a terrible marksman… Or you don't have the guts to take a life.

This pretty little liar.

She let me say it. Didn't argue. Didn't correct me. She just let me sit with that smug belief that I had her all figured out. But I didn't. Not even close. Turns out we were both pretending. I just wasn't as good at it. I wasn't the only one holding cards close to the chest.

"I may not always know what's going on in your head," she continues, "but there are times when I can read you like an open book."

And I just stand there. Staring at her like I'm seeing this girl for the first time. Because I never knew she was that skilled with a gun. That she could hit a knife mid-motion without grazing my hand. That she was watching me that closely. That she knew.

That she saw this coming.

And because...I now understand that the gap between our strengths is much wider than I expected. She doesn't just have power and status to her advantage. But also a gun. And she is good with it.

"It seems she's more of a threat than we thought." I hear Helena's voice beside me, her steely red eyes narrowed onto Clara as her hands are buried in her pockets.

The wind stirs, rustling through the flowers and sending the tall grasses swaying gently in the breeze. Clara's hair blows back in the wind, the strands dancing around her face like flames that refuse to be tamed.

I don't know what she's waiting for. A reaction? A confession? An apology?

I give her none of those things.

"Are you going to shoot me again?" I ask.

She raises an eyebrow. "Are you going to try and kill me again?"

Fair enough.

"Now here's what we're going to do," Clara calls out, her voice commanding, laced with the same unbearable elegance that coats everything she says. "You're going to be a good little boy, be on your best behavior, and drive me to the central library, where my driver will pick me up. Don't think for a second I'll be letting my guard down."

She lowers the gun slowly, as if it were nothing more than a wine glass at some lavish garden party.

I hate her.

I hate the way she smirks like she knows everything. I hate the way she holds my gun like it's just an accessory. I hate that she shot the knife from my hand and how effortlessly she pulls off that mix of innocent and lethal. I hate the way she acts like she's the only one with control.

But I also know the truth.

That gun only had one bullet. I never keep it loaded. Never needed to. She fired it once. Which means the chamber might be empty.

She might be bluffing.

I could still hurl another knife. There's one strapped to my jacket, easily within reach. I could go for it. Lunge, throw, and end this.

But...

I don't know how fast she was. I don't know if she had time to reload when she ducked into the car to grab the gun.

And a knife isn't faster than a bullet. Not when she's already aiming. Not when she's that precise.

If I throw, and I'm wrong...she'll only need two shots.

One to stop the knife. And one for me.

I need to get the gun away from her.

Then—just as the silence between us begins to stretch too long—my vision stutters again.

And just like that, the field blurs, the colors dull, like paint rinsed in water, and everything begins to fall away.