Jal saw his back in his mother’s old mirror. He yanked his shirt up over the splotch. It was growing. A chill tickled his mind, but wasn’t sure if it was the curse or just his imagination. It didn’t itch or burn. It just sat there, silently. He had always assumed it would do something. It turned out it was waiting.
It was waiting for him to go to sleep. And to dream. There it did itch and burn. It whispered to him, all the horrible things it would do once it had consumed his being and stolen his identity.