It burns
Have you ever thought about witches? Not the kind that only pop up for Halloween, all green and covered in warts as they spin a ladle around a bubbling cauldron. No, I mean witches in general. Due to my issue, I found myself reading up on them. Most sources say they're these women who have unnatural powers, usually associated with evil or - if you're the religious kind - the devil. The reason I've been thinking about them lately it's because I think I've been cursed by one.
Everything started when that thing arrived at the tiny antique shop I called my working place. It was an old book bound with an earth toned leather that miraculously had managed to remain intact throughout the years. The cover was engraved with enthralling symbols but they turned out to be pretty meaningless, no one seemed to know what they meant. To top it off, as beautiful as the handiwork was, the darn thing was bound with a lock. The shop's owner felt like it would be a pity to damage such a well preserved antique so he refused to snap the lock, keeping its contents a mystery. Even so, he would make me put it on the window display several times a week and then wrap it back up for the night, as if it was some elderly patient that needed to go out to have some sun but also be tucked in once nighttime arrived. Later on he would arrive. From the first moment, that person barged in like a force of nature, making the windowsills rattle along with the old chandelier hanging from the ceiling. I was too busy keeping an old porcelain doll from shattering to bits to even get a good look at him. "Are you nuts!?" I cried out, tightly holding what could have been half of my pay that month. The stranger just waved from behind one of the bookshelves. "I'm sorry! Give me just a moment."
At first glance I even thought he was dressed for some kind of costume party. The large coat hanging on his shoulders almost swallowed him whole, fluttering to the sides as he weaved between the shelves. His short height reminded me of a little bird hopping up and down, looking for any food scattered on the ground. His steps faded away the further he went into the store and I almost forgot about his presence. Putting the doll back in its place, I went back to dusting off an old grandfather clock. The snail paced swing of the pendulum made me grow sleepy. It was the heavy slam of something against the counter that almost sent me crashing against the crystal.
“Is that allowed?” chuckled the same voice and there stood what I could guess was a really short man or a young boy. My head was already jumbled thanks to the reddening bump in my forehead so I didn't give it much thought. What surprised me was that he had picked up the old book. He immediately paled once I told him the price and turned his back to me. I could still hear the muttering under his breath as he traced numbers in the air with his fingers. Once the customer was done, he smiled sheepishly while leaning against the counter, “U-Um say, could you by any chance need an extra pair of hands around here?” I should have said “No,” but the longer I stared at that pleading look the harder it felt to let out that simple word. “I….I can ask my boss.” He let out a deep sigh and snatched my hands in between his, “Thank you so much,” he said with a grin. The stranger promptly left after that exchange but I could still feel something pleasant tingling beneath my skin. Oddly enough, the old man grew fond of him extremely quickly, always calling him “my boy” or “young fella”. I don't know what he said about the book but whatever the reason was, it made that stone heart soften enough to promise the book's ownership to him. I didn't notice that the boss never called him by name. Now that time has passed I realized I never actually asked for it either.
After giving him a broom and an old rag my new partner was ready to go. He did much more than clean though. I’m still not sure if it was a thing of the light or just my imagination but the way he always seemed to be on the move yet barely made a sound. A rainbow colored duster sliding across a tall shelf, the squeak of the wood as it was polished until it shone with the light, and the whisper of pages rustling in the air. My plain little corner was suddenly filled with so much noise and motion. For once I didn't think it was that bad.
It took him more than a couple days but once he was done cleaning every nook and cranny of the place he started to bring in plants. I couldn't name even half of them but would still diligently water them everyday. He taught me how to take care of them, patiently pointing out even the best angle to cut the stems at and the amount of light the tiny shoots should get. “They give the place a more lively look, don't you think?” He said while smudging his own cheek with dirt. I don't know what took over me to hold him still and use my own sleeve to wipe it off. He just laughed and mumbled a thank you. The flush across his skin made the freckles, I had just realized he even had them, starkly stand out.
It was to be expected that his sunny disposition would draw more people in, even animals but I had to shoo those away for sure. First it was just some passersby that he would wave at while fixing the front display, then the young women he would greet with “good morning”s and “how do you do”s as they went about their daily business. Even groups of teens that had never been there started peeking from the windows to catch a glimpse. Never having been one of the chatty ones, I would just let him handle the little groups trailing after him like ducklings.
He would gladly humour them, shining the brightest as people would find themselves asking him any kind of questions. Whether it was about an old vase that looked especially funny or a portrait of some neckless rich man. He would make chandeliers scatter the floors with beams of colorful light or miraculously fix megaphones to crank them back to life. From what he had told me he really loved fixing broken things. The whole thing was pretty amusing to watch. One time he even seemed to be teaching them about ballroom dancing and the kids’ delighted laughter echoed all over the room. “I’m sorry for all the noise,” he said, hanging his head sheepishly. “It's just been so long since someone asked me about dancing I couldn't help myself.” “It 's fine. I didn't know you liked it.” His head shot up once again as a bright gleam shone in his eyes, “I could teach you too! I swear it's really fun. And if you don't like it I’ll even let you step on my feet.” I couldn't help but shake my head but still hung out my hand in compliance, “I'm way taller than you though.” “That doesn't matter,” he puffed out his chest, “For your information I know how to dance as either partner!” “Because you're that short?” “Well- HEY!”
The problems started when his presence became a bother to the more recurrent clients. Your typical old rich women or ex-businessmen who didn't know what to spend their retirement money on so they could go on hours browsing the shop. There would be noise complaints, cough fits from the flower's pollen and cries of indignation if he brushed past them a little too brusquely. He didn't seem to mind, flashing a nonchalant smile and making himself scarce behind a wardrobe.
“I miss when it was only you, young man,” hissed a particularly difficult lady buying an old fountain pen after drawling on about why she was purchasing it. I only gave her a quiet smile as she kept muttering under her breath, holding out my hand expectantly for the plastic card.
“There’s something about him I don't like. The way he talks and his behaviour is weird haven't you noticed?” The itch crawled up my forearm as the client kept rummaging through her purse. “He’s just a little different that’s all,” was all I could muster, quickly ringing her up and sending the woman on her way. She wouldn't be the last.
The best I can guess is word got around about this new, extremely queer, shop worker and it certainly wasn’t full of praises. Old folks’ grievances piled up quickly. Whether it was about tone of voice, his overeagerness to please, the way he casually wrapped a hand around people’s hands or forearms. One time he did that almost got him a good smack on the head, the man complaining about no etiquette and lack of professionalism from him. He remained in shock for a good while, slowly hiding his hands in his pockets and muttering “I'm sorry”.
“In my time people like you had the decency to know their place!” spat out the customer and stormed out the store. I didn't know what comfort I could even give so I just helplessly stood there in silence. All those ‘bothersome’ quirks increased more and more along with the itch. It moved from my hand to the length of my shoulder blades. People wouldn't have even begun to rant before the unnerving itch started to drive deep into my bones, forcing me to keep a straight smile as they treated me like some complaint box. After the last customer left I couldn't help but furiously dig my nails into my skin, willing the sensation to just go away, ignoring the angry red marks growing in number. “H-Hey, are you alright?” “...I'm fine,” no thanks to you. “Oh...alright.” He kept staring at me until the store closed. I think that night I practically ran home without saying goodbye. I now realize I never asked where he lived either.
After that incident I started noticing the change in his behaviour. He would no longer go out to sweep unless it was utterly necessary, sometimes even asking me to do it. He no longer tried to bring in customers, instead sticking to me once he was done with his share of work. I didn't have the strength of will to push him away so I would just let him do it. Whether it was absently drawing swirling patterns in a piece of paper or snoozing against my side. That just made it worse. Clients would suddenly come in and take several looks at the two people squeezed into the tight space, some grimacing, others coughing loudly as they looked to the side. The itch then would appear again and again. Lately it had been developing into tight twisting knots and a sharp pain in my chest. The ache along my spine, the needle sharp prickling at my chest, they would force me to hold down my head and try to scooch to the farthest corner. Anything to put some distance between his skin and mine.
“Don't you feel ashamed? Putting on that display in front of everyone,” spat another time a man as he bought a brooch and earrings for his wife. Neither of us replied so the customer just huffed at and made his way out, spitting right at the door. The burning flared up along my neck so I fled to the bathroom, furiously rubbing my skin with the cool water. It took more than a couple minutes for the sensation to calm down. When I came back he was busy drowning one of the pots in water. From then on I would stay at the shop the bare minimum, running out once my time was done.
Finally the day arrived when the book was placed in his hands. He thanked the owner with his trademark smile and said that the plants would be his parting gift. He stayed late into the night for his final shift, barely talking, not that it mattered much since we had stopped talking for a good couple weeks. Just at that moment I realized he had never really mentioned anything about the book. How he had lost it nor how it ended up in our shop, nothing. All he ever did was diligently clean it day after day, running his fingers down its old spine with an entranced look. The only difference was that day, when the clock chimed he took the book in his hands, muttering something incomprehensible to my ears like always. What I didn't expect was the key that he pulled out of his pocket.
"H-Hey what are you-” the soft click of the lock shut me up immediately. Almost as if possessed, the book sprang open, several pages fluttering out along with what seemed like a wisp of white smoke. He didn't seem baffled at all. "Do you despise me? He asked all of the sudden as the pages fluttered to his hands.I couldn't really answer. Unlike before the pressure against my chest increased, making my breath grow shallow. “Have I done something for you to come to hate me?" It felt as if a pair of hands were toying my heart, squeezing it just tight enough so it wouldn't burst. “Answer me, please.” Something grazed my cheek causing a tiny jolt of static that sent me jumping in fright. I couldn't see his face from the way he hung his head but I still couldn't find the strength to say anything. As if my mouth had been glued shut.
He smiled sadly and shuffled back, "I'm not a bad person you know? I live my life and I let people live theirs so…" he paused, sighing heavily as the book finally closed on its own. "I don't get you people." He concluded while heading to the door. As he turned one last time, I shivered, for I could have sworn his eyes were glowing. It would be the last I ever saw of them. The way they stared right into me increased the pain tenfold.
I couldn't even think clearly. I just wanted to scream at him to just go away and take that pain with him. I didn't want it. I should have never let him inside the shop. Whatever he was I just wanted him to leave! “Y’know,” He gently murmured, “Sometimes, I think your kind are the real monsters. It's always someone else’s fault isn't it?”
The slam of the door was followed by the loud shattering of ceramic. As the pain subsided, all I could imagine was that it had to be some vase or tea pot but it was one of those plants. The pot was utterly ruined beyond repair, fragments scattered across the floor along with chunks of dirt. I didn't have any other choice but to throw it away along with the debris.
After that day the pain would still flare up. It happened when I had to throw away all the other plants after they wilted. Every time those same old people spoke to me the pressure would render me unable to answer. Even an old hunting jacket, a bit too large for the tiny mannequin we had, made me choke up. This must be a curse. It has to be. Otherwise why would it hurt so bad?