Curse 1: The Itch
God, sex with her was just fucking terrible. It wasn’t like that 20 years ago but now it is. A man of average height stalked down the long decorative corridor. His hand raked through his freshly shortened hair before shoving it back into his denim pocket. His teeth ground together, just remembering what happened in the bedroom mere hours earlier. Sharp blue eyes wide with rage.
Wherever she touched, there was an itch left behind. Today, she had those fingers entangled in his hair. God, he couldn't stop scratching at his scalp for thirty minutes straight. That's when he had enough. Storming into the bathroom, he grabbed a pair of hair clippers, dragging it through his hair. Clumps of chestnut brown hair fell into the sink. To top it all off, he still itched. Which meant he could still feel her.
Picking at his already irritated scalp, his thoughts began to wander. Neither of them was capable of having children, so what was the point? Every couple of decades, she changes sex partners, but she clung to him for some reason. Everything about her was disgustingly sweet, from her natural scent to the cheap perfume of her room. God, he couldn't even stand next to her without having his stomach churn. Despite all of this torment, he needed to keep her pleased. The more sex she had, the more distracted she was.
He couldn't let her take what was his, what he created. This was going to be a new start for him. Something worth living for.
In the middle of a densely packed forest was a small log cabin. No bigger than 400 square feet, it had metal bars barricading the small windows. On its only door were multiple chains and six locks—all on the outside. Whoever constructed the place made sure that no one could get in and nothing could get out.
Inside, a young woman sat on the floor, chains on her ankles. She tucked her face between her knees, arms covering the back of her head. Cold sweat danced down her smooth skin as her body shook. She felt saliva start pooling in her mouth. Tightly she grabbed a fistful of her hair. Slowly she began to rock back and forth.
There was this burn at the back of her throat. Nothing like she's ever felt. No matter how much water she drank and the food she ate, the sensation remained. But in front of her was a small container of Tupperware with cooked meat inside it. A small sticky note had the word 'Canary' scribbled on it with a lopsided smiley face. That man, the mullet-wearing freak, would come every three or four days to "check-up" on her. Last time he brought in the mystery meat, saying she needed to eat better. But every single cell in her body told her not to trust whatever the food was. There was nothing in the world that could make her put that in her mouth.
As she slowly lost herself in the never-ending rocking, what truly drove her mad soon began to fade. The king-size, lacey bed. The array of dresses and nightgowns on a clothing rack. The dollhouses and stuffed animals. Lastly, pictures of her family but with their faces scratched out.
None of it. She wanted none of it. But no matter who much she cried and begged, he wouldn't let her go. He said that she was special. The first that he had ever seen. She was his little Canary...
Wherever she touched, there was an itch left behind. Today, she had those fingers entangled in his hair. God, he couldn't stop scratching at his scalp for thirty minutes straight. That's when he had enough. Storming into the bathroom, he grabbed a pair of hair clippers, dragging it through his hair. Clumps of chestnut brown hair fell into the sink. To top it all off, he still itched. Which meant he could still feel her.
Picking at his already irritated scalp, his thoughts began to wander. Neither of them was capable of having children, so what was the point? Every couple of decades, she changes sex partners, but she clung to him for some reason. Everything about her was disgustingly sweet, from her natural scent to the cheap perfume of her room. God, he couldn't even stand next to her without having his stomach churn. Despite all of this torment, he needed to keep her pleased. The more sex she had, the more distracted she was.
He couldn't let her take what was his, what he created. This was going to be a new start for him. Something worth living for.
In the middle of a densely packed forest was a small log cabin. No bigger than 400 square feet, it had metal bars barricading the small windows. On its only door were multiple chains and six locks—all on the outside. Whoever constructed the place made sure that no one could get in and nothing could get out.
Inside, a young woman sat on the floor, chains on her ankles. She tucked her face between her knees, arms covering the back of her head. Cold sweat danced down her smooth skin as her body shook. She felt saliva start pooling in her mouth. Tightly she grabbed a fistful of her hair. Slowly she began to rock back and forth.
There was this burn at the back of her throat. Nothing like she's ever felt. No matter how much water she drank and the food she ate, the sensation remained. But in front of her was a small container of Tupperware with cooked meat inside it. A small sticky note had the word 'Canary' scribbled on it with a lopsided smiley face. That man, the mullet-wearing freak, would come every three or four days to "check-up" on her. Last time he brought in the mystery meat, saying she needed to eat better. But every single cell in her body told her not to trust whatever the food was. There was nothing in the world that could make her put that in her mouth.
As she slowly lost herself in the never-ending rocking, what truly drove her mad soon began to fade. The king-size, lacey bed. The array of dresses and nightgowns on a clothing rack. The dollhouses and stuffed animals. Lastly, pictures of her family but with their faces scratched out.
None of it. She wanted none of it. But no matter who much she cried and begged, he wouldn't let her go. He said that she was special. The first that he had ever seen. She was his little Canary...
