Moon Curse

The Moon Curse

That day was supposed to be a busy one, with its hot, polluted weather, complete with dust and the sound of footsteps beneath noisy people. However, the day was nothing like that. It was much calmer, with the air frequently passing by to cool the atmosphere, while on the sidewalk, seen from my apartment window, the scene was cold and damp—making me ask myself, "Could it be that God also approves of me mutilating this child's ear?"

Not long after; I saw sparrows flying, swooping, and landing on the sidewalk across from my apartment. They hopped, pecked at the dust, chirped, then hopped again and flew away...

"Well, God should know this is for the best," I said to boost my confidence.

Soon after, I heard footsteps walking down the hallway, slowly stopping, probably standing behind the door. When I glanced over, I knew someone was trying to turn the door bolt but was struggling a bit. So I got up from my perch by the window and approached the door, helping the person outside turn the bolt, and I opened the door inward.

I smiled immediately, "Julienne," I said, inviting her in.

"Come in, Julienne!" I added.

After returning my smile, Julienne took a few steps, paused to take off her shoes, resumed walking, and circled around before sitting on an ebony chair near the cabinet.

After closing the front door, I immediately headed to the studio room, leaving the door ajar. Inside, there were many tools I used to use for painting people; stacks of canvases, several palettes turned brown and dusty, scattered paints, and cans. Then there was a stage behind a curtain, where the portrait models who often visited me used to change clothes; I remember, even still imagine, when they came out with golden dresses reflecting the dim light. Most of them said, "Beautiful," or, "Magnificent," after emerging from behind the curtain, their tone so deep it sounded like a sweet hiss in my ear. Oh, where have those days gone now?

As I said: on the stage, on that stage lay an old chair, no longer occupied by beautiful women, but by a chest. That was the chest I was looking for. I approached it, knelt, groped for the relic around its latch, dusty, so I wiped the dust away before opening the chest. Its size wasn't too large, so I could quickly see its contents: a fabric bag.

Since I had tied the bag with a knot, I could easily pull the head of the twist up, sling it over my shoulder while closing the chest, and carry it out of the studio room, which I quickly shut and locked again.

I turned, walking toward Julienne, and asked, "Are you really ready?"

I heard Julienne's breath escape her lips. "Yes," she replied hesitantly.

"How?" I said, "Remember, I'm not an expert." I emphasized.

"Yes, I'm sure, Mr. Erik, please proceed!" she replied.

My eyes briefly searched for a table to place the bag I was carrying. Then, I went to the window, dragging a small square table from near the window and positioning it close, right beside Julienne. Then I placed the medium-sized bag on top of it.

After setting all that up, I approached the girl, stood before her, bent down, and put on a convincing face.

"Are you sure?" I repeated with a melancholic rhythm, "Are you sure you want to cut off your ear?"

Her lips pressed together. I knew her eyes were too afraid to meet mine, while I still needed certainty, so I let my body remain bent over for a moment longer.

Not long after, she replied: "Yes, I'm sure!" she asserted, her eyes downcast, "I'm sure because,—because, I truly can face my fear!"

I smiled slightly, stood upright, placed my hands in my pants pockets, and exhaled.

"So," I sighed. "So, it's all because of that dream?" I asked with concern.

Her head shook; but I felt that her head, while shaking, was saying "yes" from within her heart. It was hard for me to smile, even just to comfort her.

I turned and walked to the table. I wasn't sure why, whether out of fear or because she was reconsidering removing one of her ears—but I hoped she was reconsidering mutilating one of her ears—because her gaze hadn't left my face. Even as I busied myself trying to untie the fabric knot of the bag on the table, her eyes hadn't relinquished the sharpness that contrasted with her expressionless face...

"It's not real, Julienne," I stated, "You're like the person my friend told me about."

Julienne didn't respond; but at least after I made that statement, I managed to escape the piercing gaze that had been fixed on my face. And when I glanced at her, I saw her gaze was downcast but not lowered....

Then, the knot was successfully untied, and I quickly opened and spread the fabric. Now, a row of medical items: including five scalpels, an empty syringe without a needle separated from its piston, three scissors, ten sewing needles, etc.

Julienne turned her head as I spread out the fabric, I noticed. And she looked stunned, frozen, while her lips seemed heavy, especially when the sharp medical items, not far from her, began to line up one by one, to tidy their position to be aligned, horizontal, and cleaned one by one.

"How many people have visited you?" Julienne asked, seemingly half-conscious.

I looked up and answered briefly: "Only one: Abkov Lepin, an Oligarch from New York City."

"Oh, no wonder it's still clean—" she sighed.

I returned her smile.

After about two minutes, I had cleaned each of the faces of those lined-up tools, so now these shiny objects were more ready than the old ones in the studio room.

I stood up, carefully placing the scissors, the last tool I had cleaned, onto the cloth. After cleaning everything, Julienne called me, and I approached her, quickly stating what I had asked for earlier.

"I brought what you asked for," she announced, fumbling in the pockets of her leather jacket. Soon, she pulled out a bottle of anesthetic. Her arm extended as she said, "Here, take it!" with a strangely cheerful tone. Despite my hesitation and wondering how she got it, this bottle provided more than three doses: it was less than 5 cm, its metal already had holes, but the liquid inside had not been used at all.

"Where did you get this bottle? You didn't steal it, did you?"

Hearing my question, her face immediately turned into a frown, her eyebrows furrowing downward, and she replied irritably, "How rude, how could someone who looks like me steal? Lucky for you, I didn't slap you!" Then she turned her face away from me.

"I'm sorry," I sighed. After placing the anesthetic bottle beside the scalpel, I added, "Sorry, but if I listen to your stories, about impossible things, huh? Such metaphors are flavored with my confusion and my doubts... imagine: I have to decapitate a rabbit!"

Finally, Julienne looked back at me; she was silent for a moment and replied, "It's not your fault," she asserted diplomatically, "nor is it anyone's fault."

As she spoke at length, I was still listening. I listened to her complaints as I walked to my desk, which was not far from the studio, just next to it. There, I would take three packs containing new needles from the drawer. As I pulled out the drawer, I took the needles and heard her complaints cease.

"Continue, Julienne; I can still hear you!" I said...

A few seconds later, I heard the continuation of her expressions, which made me have to operate on her ear.

"But what if it's true? What if the dream is real?" Julienne stated, "And what if I am indeed cursed? I am not guilty of anything! But that terrifying figure came to me in a form I really like: the Full Moon!"

I held two packs between my index finger and thumb. I sighed when I realized that Julienne had stopped not because she was confused about her expressions, but because she was hugging herself as a means of self-soothing... if it were me, maybe I would have swallowed three capsules of morphine, so I could appear calm on the chair that Julienne was sitting on... but, better not! She had a light she couldn't see—and it was so bright, yet blooming.

I approached her. After putting the needle packs on the table, I moved behind her, then slowly raised my arms and placed them on her hands on both of her shoulders. As best as I could, I tried to calm her with sweet words, flattery, persuasion, even the truth itself,—which to this day I feel is absurd,—but all of that, oh, it seemed my effort this time failed—failed!

Instead, she just sat still, her arms on her shoulders tightening more and more... her eyes widened until they turned red. If I looked at her directly, maybe I would share the same fear she had. Not long after, her feet lifted, and now Julienne could curl up on that narrow chair, but I became worried that if her condition didn't improve soon, it would worsen, to the point that I could not resolve her personal problems and I could do nothing.

Patiently I waited. I didn't force my will on her either, because her curled-up position alone was enough to keep my attention for as long as possible. And I kept trying to comfort her with a low volume, carefully choosing words and phrases, and continuously stroking her shoulders.

Sentences followed by repeated questions, such as: "What if his messenger comes tonight?," "I'm not ready to be thrown!," "The furnace fire won't turn me to ash.," "I saw shining eyes. He was quiet there. One movement: a blink. I froze. I'm being watched!," "they asked something of me, so I gave them an ear," which made me increasingly uneasy. Small sobs followed, although they were released very calmly but made me increasingly uncomfortable with my inability to do anything.

She cried. Jeanne cried. Even though they were small and gentle sobs, I could hear them very clearly, like a thunderstorm in the afternoon.

Realizing my efforts were futile, those lines and persuasion were not enough, while my heart began to be wary of the worst possibility, which was that she would cancel her surgery and choose to go home. No! I don't care about her money! It's just that if she analyzes the other options, which are to surrender her entire soul and body to the strange things she saw, it's very likely that if I'm responsible, it would be huge, so I have to quickly take preventive action before she chooses to commit suicide!

But I didn't think of anything about preventive efforts, because my brain felt full and suffering from other people's problems. But that doesn't mean I stood still and froze. Because, even unconsciously, it turns out my feet moved, my position shifted slowly and now faced her face. And as I bent down, I don't know what crossed my mind to bring my face right in front of her forehead and kissed it just like that... her forehead was so warm and welcoming, but at that moment, I realized my mistake—and God seemed, for God's sake with all His power, He would not save me!

Because, as Jeanne's head lifted, my blood suddenly spurted and boiled to fill the empty columns in my nerves; my eyes automatically shut as a response to bear the pain, but my senses did not stop, and they felt a strong light beam, bright yellow, burning from behind my eyes... but, as my eyes opened to see it directly, my pain disappeared, and I could neither see nor respond nor be shocked when glowing darkness stabbed me from all directions. But soon, I vaguely heard the splashing volume of oil paint; and as I turned, its colors were sprinkled with a tone of flowing water, even seemingly alive. And they floated, spinning around me, and as my eyes followed them from every inch and strange shape, I didn't realize that they began to soar and take shape, but I was too late,—too late even just to reason briefly. That beauty quickly created terrifying hues, blemishes that were flawed, a pallor without mercy,—they didn't give me any chance at all,—then when I regained my sanity to be shocked, shiver, feel horrified, and feel certain to be afraid, suddenly the room became quiet and empty. There were no other sentences I heard except the repetition of egocentric and irrational sentences with the hiss of thunder that reflected the terrible tongue of fire: "It's so shocking, the loss of a dead living soul!"