They tell me that when I was born, the power went out in the hospital. The nurse who delivered me slipped and broke her hip, and two intensive-care patients flatlined when I was carried past their room.
And that was just the beginning.
Wherever I’ve gone, bad luck has followed me like a shadow.
Not my bad luck, of course. Everyone else’s.
The more people I have nearby, the more the effect is diluted. If I’m in a crowded bus, maybe everyone around me suddenly remembers something embarrassing from their childhood, or tiny cavities start growing in their teeth.
If there are only a few, though, the effect gets concentrated on them. That’s when it’s really horrible. Like the night when I tried to go for a walk. I picked a road and a time when there shouldn’t have been anyone out, but I didn’t see the cyclist until it was too late. The moment the flashing red light on the back of his bike passed by me, I knew something terrible was about to happen to him.
A logging truck ran a stop sign up ahead. I still remember how the cyclist’s arms and legs spun as he disappeared beneath its heavy wheels.
That’s the kind of thing that happens to people who are alone with me.
Worst part is, the longer I stay away from people, the more all that bad luck builds up.
I was around three when my parents finally began to understand my condition. I can’t imagine how difficult their lives must have been until then. How many shattered dishes, pockets caught on doorknobs, stubbed toes and fender-benders…
They tried everything. The doctors all got splitting headaches, and the faith healer had a heart attack as soon as he laid hands on me. The only thing that seemed to work was keeping as many people around as possible, as often as possible, to minimize the damage.
So what if they all got unscratchable itches for a few minutes or forgot the most important thing on their grocery lists? At least they stayed alive.
The ironic result of all this was that–despite being the cause of everyone’s minor irritations–I was incredibly popular all throughout school. I had to be–
I knew what would happen if I was by myself for too long.
I dreaded those moments after a party when only a few of us were left awake. I didn’t dare to ride home with just one or two people, sure that they’d be hit by a drunk driver or worse. If I was alone with a couple, they’d have a relationship-ending argument. If it was several friends, they’d get into a fight over nothing or try some stupid dare, and someone would wind up with a broken neck.
Meanwhile, the worst thing that happened to me was depression. It was exhausting being around so many people all the time, doing the same boring activities and listening to the same superficial conversations. I just wanted to crawl into bed and read a book for once.
As I got older, though, people started to make the connection between me and their misfortune. From my college roommates’ disappearing exam notes to the constantly malfunctioning printers at my first job, sooner or later everyone realized that things were just a little bit worse when I was around. It made socializing harder…which meant that when I did see people, they were in even more danger. I thought that there was no way out–
Until five years ago, when everything changed.
I’d just been laid off from yet another warehouse job, after yet another wall of shelves had collapsed as I passed by. I thought the anonymous text message was from a recruiter. It was a standard request to meet in a cafe for an interview. I knew the place; it was crowded enough.
But the bald man in the black overcoat with cyrillic tattoos on his neck and hands was no ordinary HR rep. A chill ran down my spine when he took a seat across from me.
“So you’re the girl who hurts people…” the bald man said in an Eastern European accent, without introducing himself.
“Excuse me?” I crossed my arms, suddenly feeling very exposed. My parents and a few others knew about my ‘condition,’ of course, but I’d never heard it described quite so harshly. “Who are you?”
“We pay people to keep an eye out for cases like yours. Cases like yours are very…” his snaggled teeth and wormy lips twisted into a grin “…precious.” I was suddenly 100% sure that the man in front of me had killed people–a lot of people. I also understood that he had a silenced 9mm pistol under his coat, and that he would gun me down without blinking–even here in the middle of this busy cafe–if I tried to leave without his permission. It was like the knowledge had been beamed directly to my head as a series of gruesome images. “As you can see, I am also a special case. But not so special as you.”
I winced as his weathered, tattooed hand stroked mine.
And I wished I was alone with him. I wished that he was the first person I’d seen after a whole month of isolation. I’d never done such a thing before; I had no idea what would happen…but I wanted the man in front of me to feel all of it.
Here in a tightly-packed public space, though, the worst he got from touching me was a nosebleed.
“You’re going to work for us.” He wiped away the blood and smiled. “You and your family will be very well taken care of, as long as you do as you’re told. If not…”
I can’t bring myself to describe what I saw in my head as he talked, the things that man and his thugs would do to my family…the worst part was, the visions made it clear that he knew where my parents lived. I felt sick.
“I’ve paid the bill.” The bald man in black commented cheerfully. “We leave whenever you’re ready.”
There was a kind of ghastly eloquence to their plan.
They would keep me in a state of isolated luxury for a month or more. I could have basically anything I wanted, except interaction with other people.
Then they’d give me the details of my mark.
I’d be expected to get them alone, hitting them with the full concentrated power of my ‘condition’ the moment they came into my presence.
Sometimes that meant slinking through dark forests or filthy alleys at strange hours. Other times it meant hiding in a mansion closet for days, or getting a job on the night-shift cleaning staff of a prison using the false documents that they’d provide. In any case, the tracking device they put into me and the snipers who followed me at a distance made sure that I couldn’t escape.
I tried to tell myself that I was just keeping my family safe and getting paid–extremely well.
With my ‘new job’ I hardly saw my family anymore, but maybe that was for the best. At least I hoped that the cushy life I was providing them with could make up for eighteen years of constant misfortune. Without fully realizing it, I was becoming just as sinister and criminal as my mysterious employer–a sort of hitwoman specializing in bizarre accidents.
Every time I stepped out from a closet, treeline, or sewer, I was greeted by the same sort of surprised, vaguely disturbed expression: who’s THIS? What is SHE doing here?
Then there was nothing to do but wait.
It was a terrifying feeling, knowing that something awful was about to happen but not knowing when or what.
Sometimes the circumstances of death were unfortunate but at least somewhat normal, like the Italian politician who choked to death a piece of birthday cake when I walked up to his kitchen window.
Other times, the freakishness of the accidents gave me nightmares for days. Like what happened to the CEO of a booming tech startup who was sunbathing while two robotic lawnmowers cut his grass.
It doesn’t take much to imagine what happened when I got close…
I still can’t eat tomato sauce without thinking of it.
Then there was that wealthy pedophile waiting to stand trial. When I pushed my cleaning cart past his cell, he slipped. His head fell through the bars, which tightened around his neck. All I could do was watch, frozen with fear, as the bars of his own cell strangled him. His eyes bulged, his veins looked ready to burst, and his face turned from red to purple.
It was almost blue by the time he stopped twitching.
After puking in the mop bucket, I turned in my badge and uniform and left that jail, never to return.
There was definitely a pattern among my ‘marks.’ It wasn’t a pattern of race or gender or social class; it was a pattern of power. After all, I didn’t spend all my time in isolation watching sappy movies and eating pizza; I also did my research. It soon became clear that the people I was being used to destroy posed a threat to my employer in some way or another, although exactly how was always a mystery.
But now I’m afraid this shadow organization is building up to something horrible.
I haven’t been close to another person in a year and a day. It’s the longest I’ve ever gone without passing on this cloud of bad luck. I can’t be sure, but what I’m carrying with me now might be enough to wipe out a small crowd, or maybe even a whole city block.
I’m afraid it’s going to be gruesome.
At first, I was willing to do anything to keep my family safe; now I realize that I’ve become a puppet. No matter what happens to me or the people I care about, this must end.
There’s only two ways this can go.
If the next week passes without a newsworthy, inexplicable catastrophe–well, think of me and smile when you look up at the stars. I’m out there somewhere beneath the same sky, and I’ve finally freed myself from my ‘employers.’ If not, well–
I’m sorry for your luck.