“What do we do with that stupid plant?” I asked the Father, as we stood at the glass door in his office the next day. Since yesterday, I haven’t felt like going outside. My peaceful garden had turned into the world of the dead, where I didn’t want to be.
“There’s nothing we can do. We have to leave it there,” he said.
“Why? I mean we could pull it out completely and then burn it. It would make a really nice fire,” I suggested, imagining myself dancing around the burning shrub with joy.
“It wouldn’t make a difference. The curse is not that it stands there. The curse is that you saw it,” he told me, looking at me seriously.
Great! I wished I hadn’t looked at it.
Days went by and I waited for my fate to fulfill. Even if Father Michael tried to persuade me, that it didn’t necessarily mean I would die, I felt that it was exactly what it meant. I felt the omen of death was meant for me. The knowledge drove me crazy. I couldn’t think of anything else. The slightest cracking, the smallest shadow made me jump. Behind every corner, in the darkest alley I suddenly felt it waiting for me. I saw a threat and my end in everything. That kind of fear was new to me. But I couldn’t, I didn’t want to let it control me. I couldn’t afford to do that. Fear paralyzes us and rigidness was something I couldn’t afford. I had to face it. I had to shake off the fear of the unknown.
I went hunting and worked with the same discipline and precision as before, even if I wasn’t the same person anymore. The omen of death had changed me on the inside. But I did what I had to do. I was lucky to return to the church safe and sound every night. But even the firmest lucky streaks break, a lesson I learnt when I saw the three ugly creatures walk up and down in front of St. Mary’s church’s portal.