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I was born with a curse. I see a shimmering, crimson timer above everyone's head, counting down to the exact moment of their death. For this, my family has treated me like a monster for eighteen years, blaming me for every tragedy I foresaw. On my 21st birthday, the timer finally appeared above my own head. I had twenty-four hours left to live. I spent my last day preparing a feast, a desperate plea for one final family dinner. With only minutes to spare, I called my eldest brother, Fredrick, my voice breaking. "Please, just come home," I sobbed. "I'm going to die tonight." His response was colder than the grave. "Are you really so desperate for attention that you'd stoop to such pathetic lies?" Then, I heard the click of the line going dead. I died alone at that table, surrounded by the food no one came to eat. But my death wasn't the end. It was the beginning of their nightmare, a personal hell of guilt they could never escape.
Contents
Chapter 1
I was born with a curse. I see a shimmering, crimson timer above everyone's head, counting down to the exact moment of their death. For this, my family has treated me like a monster for eighteen years, blaming me for every tragedy I foresaw.
On my 21st birthday, the timer finally appeared above my own head. I had twenty-four hours left to live.
I spent my last day preparing a feast, a desperate plea for one final family dinner. With only minutes to spare, I called my eldest brother, Fredrick, my voice breaking.
"Please, just come home," I sobbed. "I'm going to die tonight."
His response was colder than the grave. "Are you really so desperate for attention that you'd stoop to such pathetic lies?"
Then, I heard the click of the line going dead.
I died alone at that table, surrounded by the food no one came to eat. But my death wasn't the end. It was the beginning of their nightmare, a personal hell of guilt they could never escape.
Chapter 1
They say I was born cursed, a harbinger of doom, but all I ever saw was a clock ticking down to heartbreak. It wasn't a metaphor. It was real. A shimmering, crimson countdown hovering just above people's heads, invisible to everyone but me.
I first saw it when I was four.
My grandmother, Nana Rose, was sitting in her favorite armchair, knitting a blanket for my mother, who was expecting Houston. Nana Rose had a warm smile, and her hands, though gnarled with age, moved with a gentle rhythm.
Above her head, a translucent red timer pulsed: 00:00:24:00.
I didn't understand what it meant. I tugged on my mother's sleeve. "Mommy, Nana has a red clock over her head."
My mother, absorbed in a book, barely glanced up. "Oh, Elia, honey. That's just your imagination."
My father, polishing his antique watch, chuckled without looking at me. "Still seeing fairies, my little dreamer?"
They dismissed it as a child's fantasy. A vivid imagination. They always did. But I knew what I saw. I insisted, my voice small and desperate. "It's real! It's ticking!"
They just patted my head, their faces distant. That night, the phone rang. It was an emergency call. My mother rushed to answer it, her face paling as she listened. Nana Rose had passed away peacefully in her sleep.
I stood by the coffin, confused. Nana Rose's face was covered by a white veil. People around me cried, their shoulders shaking with grief. I didn't cry. I didn't understand what death was, only that Nana Rose's clock had reached zero.
The next time I saw a timer, it was on my mother. She was radiant, her belly round with Houston. Above her head, a familiar red glow. The numbers were clear: 00:00:24:00. Twenty-four hours.
I ran to her, my small hands grabbing her skirt. "Mommy! There's a clock! It's ticking down!"
She looked at me, a flicker of something, maybe fear, in her eyes. It was gone as quickly as it came. She forced a smile. "Elia, darling, you're just excited about your new brother."
That night, the phone rang again. It was about my Uncle Thomas, my father's younger brother. He'd been in a terrible car accident. My mother, still pregnant, gasped, dropping the receiver. She rushed out the door, her silk robe trailing behind her.
On the polished marble steps, she tripped. A sharp cry. A sickening thud. The world spun.
Chaos erupted. My father rushed to her side, his face etched with panic. Sirens. Hospitals. Everything blurred.
I saw it then, hovering above my mother as they wheeled her into the emergency room. My own timer. It was the same red, the same relentless countdown.
24:00.
She went into premature labor. Houston was born, small and fragile, but alive. My mother, however, didn't make it. The doctors said it was massive hemorrhage. She died on the operating table.
I stood outside the sterile white doors, lost in a world suddenly devoid of her warmth. My older brothers, Fredrick, Jered, and Jarrett, found me there. Jered grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my skin.
"It's your fault!" he screamed, his face contorted with rage. "You cursed her! You cursed everyone!"
Jarrett shoved me, sending me stumbling against the cold wall. "You're a monster, Elia! Both of them! Dead because of you!"
Their words were hammers, pounding on my small chest. They twisted my mother's accident, my warnings, into a curse. My "original sin." My body ached where they hit me, but the pain in my heart was a heavier burden. I bit my lip, tasting blood, to stop the sob from escaping. I wouldn't give them the satisfaction.
People in the hallway, nurses and doctors, looked at me with fear and disgust. I could feel their eyes, their silent accusations. I was the strange child, the bringer of misfortune. The one no one wanted to touch. I just stood there, bruised and trembling, unable to defend myself. What was there to say? My power was real. The clocks were real. The deaths were real.
I slowly pushed myself up, my legs wobbly. I smoothed my rumpled dress, a futile attempt to regain some dignity. I curled into a ball in the corner of the waiting room, pulling my knees to my chest. I listened to the muffled sobs of my brothers. For a moment, I wanted to join them, to cry for my mother, for my uncle, for Nana Rose. But no tears came. Only a vast, empty ache.
I closed my eyes, picturing my mother's face, her soft hands. "Mommy, Daddy," I whispered to the empty air, "why did you leave me?"
Sleep claimed me, a brief escape from the crushing weight of reality. When I woke, the hallway was silent. Everyone was gone. No one had bothered to wake me. No one cared.
A cold dread seeped into my bones. Had they abandoned me? Left me alone in this sterile, desolate place? I scrambled to my feet, panic rising in my throat. My legs, stiff from being curled up for so long, gave out beneath me. I collapsed again, a whimper escaping my lips.
The hallway stretched out, long and silent, illuminated by the harsh, fluorescent lights. Pain consumed me, both physical and emotional. The tears I'd held back earlier finally came, hot and stinging, burning trails down my cheeks. My life, as I knew it, had fundamentally shifted. It had become a tragedy, and I was the cursed centerpiece.
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