What does it mean to be cursed? A character finds out firsthand by discovering that the most profound moment of his life stays with him forever. Imagine you've done something horrible and you're forced to relive the moment for all eternity. While you read this little flash piece think about the most profound moment of your life, would you like to relive it for all eternity? Here is Cursed as it is posted on Writing.com.
By Nomar Knight
The most profound moment of your life stays with you forever.
Even as I try to remove the bloodstains, an urgency to complete my task gnaws at me. So much evidence to erase. The constant tick of the old purple wall clock urges me to move faster. My quest for absolution lingers in the air as time itself keeps me prisoner.
Without question, any man in my predicament will react the same way. When pushed to the brink, one finds the darkness compelling, indeed soothing. The whispers, at first subtle, are like a reassuring breeze on a humid summer day. So I do it. I pick up the knife.
The cause of my woes, Lily, sits on the bed, her feet tucked underneath her smooth rear. Her attention is not on me but on her favorite late night comedian.
With every step, I think about her vain existence. Even now as she paints her long fingernails a disturbing pink, her premeditated strokes triggers my correct perception of her deliberateness in all things. It's as if she is an ancient goddess sent to entrap good souls like me.
Images of Lily talking with all of those men, letting them touch her as she moves seductively, flashes in my mind. For every dollar placed on her g-string, I endure watching a squeeze of a breast, a caress of her buttocks. Greasy dirty men.
I almost vomit when I recall the filthy spit spewed from their mouths onto her tongue.
I try to convince her to quit that life. She rolls her eyes, laughs and says, "Who is going to pay the rent? You?"
Bloodstains on the wall. I have no time to clean it. The white linen soaks in Lily's blood. I must burn it. Evidence.
The whispers get louder, more distinguishable. It seems that the harder I wipe, the blood spreads further.
Faster and faster I go. The whispers turn into chants.
"Kill her! Kill her!"
I glance at the wall clock and stop cleaning.
Lily is alive, painting her fingernails, watching television, ignoring me for the last time. I hope. I stand behind her with knife in hand, listening to the voices, listening to the clock, ready to kill her. I am cursed to relive this horrible moment again, because the most profound moment of my life stays with me forever.