MY CHRONICAL LIFE

I am in love with a fairytale. Even though it hurts.

I continued to sprint tirelessly, my breaths coming in gasps as I desperately sought to distance myself from the harsh grasp of reality. How could I confront it? The overwhelming sense of déjà vu enveloped me, reminding me that not enough time had passed for me to erase the memory of this very place from my mind.

She was undeniably the epitome of beauty, a vision so ethereal that it seemed almost otherworldly. However, fate had an unyielding grip on her, a merciless curse that sealed her tragic destiny. There was an enchanting mischief in her eyes, a mischievous spark that ultimately became her downfall. The raven-black tresses cascading down her shoulders perfectly complemented the delicate contours of her elfin countenance, enhancing her captivating allure.

Yet, with her untimely demise, an unforeseen consequence unfolded. The world around us began to cast a label upon those who had been closely connected to her life's narrative, dubbing us as the "chronics." This somber moniker served as a haunting reminder of the profound impact she had left upon our existence, etching her memory into our collective consciousness.

Despite the sorrow that cloaked us, the image of her ethereal beauty and impish charm persisted in our minds, forever preserved in our hearts. The legend of the cursed girl with the most radiant features would forever endure, a poignant testament to the enduring power of her presence in our lives.

“Don’t wander off, sweetheart." She dropped her head while taking little steps.

“Ok, ok, you have been freed, my little fairy.” I swirl my hand in the air; her face lights up, and she starts running in circles. I lie down and admire the empty sky above. Uneasiness.Near the lake, the air reeked with a foreboding stench.

Not again; I’ve run out of my prescription. A year ago, after the tragic part of my life, I was diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder; in its aftermath, I turned out to be an opium addict. The little possibility of happiness in my life vanished long ago. Until…

“I don’t know how to break it to you, but I’m expecting.” A chance at life again, maybe. I didn’t react–that I see from my lady’s tumult expression; I don’t know how to. Bittersweet. A foreboding sense prevails over me as I think about all the pessimistic outcomes: miscarriage, birth trauma, dead baby, premature birth, or this could be an ectopic pregnancy.

I detest this wretched place, the abode of affliction. Against my will, I find myself returning once more, and the circumstances offer no solace. Within the sterile walls, my beloved companion lies in the confines of the operating room, compelled to endure the agonizing ordeal of premature labor. Dread fills my heart, for the prospect of a premature birth has haunted my thoughts since the onset of this tumultuous journey. And even now, as the seconds tick by with excruciating slowness, my fear persists, refusing to be assuaged.

“It’s a girl; however, there are many complications and the child is born with a defect.”

Fear engulfed me. I wanted to run before I could hear any more.

“Her intestines have extended outside her body; we can try and fix that, but we need your consent.” Consent. I sign the papers. It was as if I had opened Pandora’s box, yet somehow hope was still trapped inside.

In the depths of dismality, engulfed by an overwhelming sense of despair, I find solace in burying myself next to her lifeless form. With a trembling hand, I scrape another handful of dirt, each clump cascading down upon the solemn grave. The weight of her final words reverberates incessantly within the confines of my mind, piercing my heart like a haunting refrain, "The child wasn't yours."

My existence has been marred by an unrelenting chain of miseries, a succession of trials and tribulations that seem to have no end. Like a Pandora's box, once brimming with unfathomable sorrows, I now stand before it, its contents depleted, leaving behind a void that echoes with desolation. In this moment, lying motionless alongside her, I realize that I am but a specter among the countless lifeless bodies surrounding us. The curse that has consumed me, rendering me lifeless even while I still draw breath, has taken its toll.

I'm already cursed.