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.
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