Since I was a little girl, I’ve seen death. Not in the ordinary way when your grandmother dies, but in the extraordinary way when every single person you’ve ever known or loved dies. My parents were the first to go. They left to visit my aunt in Seattle when their plane was struck down and crashed somewhere in Kansas. They died instantly. I was nine. Then came my sister. She died one winter when we were ice skating. She fell through the ice and never came up. After that I went to live with my Father’s sister. I lived with her for six months before she suddenly died of a massive heart attack. she was only thirty-two. Since then every place I’ve lived, someone has died. When I finally managed to run away, I went to live with my friend Isa. I went for a walk to the park across the street when the house caught fire and burned to the ground, killing everyone inside.

I don’t know why this happens to me, but I know it’s a curse, and one I can’t run from. for the last three years, I’ve lived by myself, managing to live off the money my parents left me in their will. The money dwindles everyday, and I know I can’t live like this much longer. I don’t want to live like this any longer.

“Anastasia?” My name rings hollowly in my ears, like a grandfather clock. I look up and see a woman dressed in black smiling down at me. She holds a clipboard in her arms, and her cell phone gripped tightly in her palm.

“yes.” I say. The woman switches her phone to her other hand and reached her now free one for me to shake. I take hold of it hesitantly. The woman gasps for a moment beofre her face goes blank and she collapses to the ground. color drains from her face and her hand is cold in my grip. I stare down in horror at the dead woman. My curse is growing stronger, now taking anyone I touch. I leave my resume sitting on the chair and dash out of the room. I was planning on interviewing with that woman for a job as an intern at her publishing company, hoping to pursue my desire to write. I was stupid for thinking I could be around other people like that.

I run down the busy street of New York City, careful not to touch anyone. A little girl rushes up to me, free from her mother’s grip. She reaches out but I push her away. She falls to the ground and begins crying. People look at me with frowns on their faces. Tears begin to stream down my cheeks. They don’t know that with every touch I make, I take a life.

“What is wrong with you?” A woman comes up and kneels down next to the girl. I shake my head and run away. I shove my hands deep into my pockets and elbow people out of my way, careful not to have any flesh shown.

I stop outside my apartment. I live alone, with virtually no stuff. I’ve had to flee so often that I’ve learned not to carry too many things with me.

I slam my door shut and collapse on the floor. I sob uncontrollably into my hands. I’ve wished so many times that my own curse worked on myself, but i’m immune.

Whatever this is, whatever’s wrong with me has haunted me my whole life. I used to think it was tragic that so many people die around me, but after so many sudden deaths, I quickly realized it wasn’t the universe, but me. I was killing all those people, and now I’m killing anyone with just a touch. How soon will it be until I kill someone with just a look.

I’ve wanted to end it so many times, I’ve brought knife after knife down on my wrists. I’ve watched the blood flow out of my wounds, pool around my feet. I know the smell well by now. Nothing seems to work. I’ve even had someone shoot me in the head. It was a mugging, but still the damage was the same. dismal. I can’t die. I can kill people easily. I have no one left. I have no one left. I repeat the words over and over in my head until I fall asleep.

My latest victim’s last look repeats over and over in my head. I want to turn it off, but I can’t. The look in her eyes before she died rushes around me. I scream into the night air, sweat pouring down my face. I cry out, screaming for it all to end. I don’t know what I did to deserve this. I just want it to end.

The light outside nearly blinds me. I step out of my apartment building with a cold look in my eyes and a new heart. Whatever inside me that was keeping all my guilt at bay broke. I broke. I don’t care if I kill someone. I’m done hiding from what I am. I am a murderer. It’s in my flesh, my veins. I might as well own it and not be afraid of it.

A young woman walks by wearing a long coat of dark blue. She talks loudly into her phone. The snow on the ground glitters up at me as I glide behind her. I don’t care anymore. I want to see it. I touch the girl’s shoulder and she turns around. I smile wickedly at her and I touch her face with my slender palm. The girl drops her phone, whoever she was talking to calls out her name. Melissa. The girl falls to the ground. her flesh turns to ice, and her coat frosts over. I look down at my skin and I gasp. My skin is white, and small intricate swirls glide up and down my arms. I bend down and look into the mirror of a car parked beside me. My hair is white. My skin white. My eyes are icy blue, and the swirls glide up my neck, glittering across my cheeks. My dress is white and tight against my body. I step back and smile at myself. My blue lips spread against my face, but it doesn’t reach my eyes.

I don’t look at the fallen girl. I keep my head held high and I walk on.