An Impossible Curse

Chapter Three: What's happening?

What’s happening? 

“Bloom! The hot water isn’t working!” 

I walk upstairs, to where Sarah is standing, wrapped in a towel, the water frozen in glittering tracks across her face and arms. She is shivering, and I wave my hands over her, melting most of the ice. She walks into the bathroom, and points to the door leading into the guest room, where Oliver is supposedly doing ‘work’ for the project. As if. I can hear the commentary on the hockey game from here. 

“He took a two-hour shower this morning, used up the rest of my shampoo, and broke that soap dish mom got in Bejing.” 

I groan, running my hands through my hair. Flames flicker across my skin. I stare, worried. The spray has been weakening lately. Even when I just put it on, I can see the smallest of flames rippling across my skin. I need to learn to control it. Fast. 

I focus as hard as I can on my arms, on drawing the flames back in. It works. The flames disappear  almost instantly, and a warmth fills me, like the heat was transported to my very core. I groan, as it intensifies, and release it again. The flames are back, slightly brighter than before. Sarah looks worriedly at me, and I notice that the snow around her has gotten slightly thicker than before. 

I sigh. “There’s not much we can do. Mom and Dad won’t let him buy his own place. Says he needs ‘family’ time.” I put air quotes around ‘family’. 

Sarah snorts. “More like ‘ignore-your-cousins-and-ruin-their-property’ time. I wish he’d never come here. We’re all better off separated from each other. It’s only a matter of time before someone cracks.” 

The venom in her voice surprises me. Sarah hasn’t known enough people to know if someone is genuinely polite, or if they’re just faking. But it’s pretty obvious that Oliver wants nothing to do with us. 

“I don’t get it though,” I sigh, flopping on the sofa. The cushions make a crackle sound, and I lift one of them up to find an empty chip bag. I pick it up, and watch in burn to ashes. “If he hates us as much as he says-or, implies- why doesn’t he ask Mom and Dad to let him rent his own place? They love him!” 

Sarah nods, thoughtful. “That’s true. They’d probably let him burn down the house if he asked. Sorry,” she added, because at the word ‘burn’, I’d winced. I’d almost burned the house, when I was six. But that was an accident. It was right when we found out how bad my curse was. 

At that moment, Oliver comes thumping down the stairs, his hair tousled, still in his pajamas. My this, I mean boxers. I groan, and shove a pillow into my face. 

“Morning,” Sarah says, with a weak smile. I clench my fingers when he ignores her. “Morning,” she tries again, a little louder. I hear a grunt in return, and I can feel myself heating up, but not from the fire. My face is going red. I hate him. 

I get up, throwing the pillow against the dark blue cushions. “I’m going to take a shower,” I muttered to Sarah. She nods, her blue eyes gazing out the window. I walk towards the stairs, passing Oliver, who has helped himself to a bowl of cornflakes. My favorite cereal. 

When I’m in my room, I just lie on the cold stone floor, feeling the barrier between the flames and the air breaking. Orange fills my vision, and smoke drifts around me. This has never happened before. If the spray doesn’t work, what am I supposed to do? Walk around in a suit made of wet sponges? Spend the rest of my life in a fish-tank? I concentrate harder, drawing the flames back in. The heat fills me again, but I keep it in. I manage to hold it for five minutes. The heat is burning my lungs, filling me up, pressing against my skin until I can’t take it anymore. I release my focus, and the orange is back, brighter and more intense than ever. Too intense. 

They are swirling in my eyes, the flames so thick that I can’t see anything. The heat is back, except this time it hurts, and I know how it feels to be burned, and I don’t like it. A whimper escapes my mouth, and the fire goes in. My mouth is as dry as sandpaper, the oxygen is sucked out of my lungs, and when I try to draw breath, it hurts. I hear screaming, and I realize it’s me. I hear pounding on the stairs, until that, too, is blocked out by the roar of fire in my ears. I hear a frightened yell, and I groan. It’s Oliver. 

“Sarah!” he yells. “SARAH!” Another pair of feet, and then... 

Relief. Cool, blissful relief. A pair of shaking hands touches my skin, and they are ice-cold. Sarah. 

“Oliver, go into the bathroom, and get a bucket with water,” Sarah says, her voice sharp, but it wavers at the end. She just sits there, the snow touching my skin, dousing the flames. Then, Oliver is there, and he dumps a bucket of icy water on me and Sarah. It covers my body, and I sigh, the unbearable heat finally gone. Sarah helps me to the shower, and I step into the cool water without even bothering to take off my clothes. After a while, I just sit down, letting myself be drenched periodically by Oliver, who feels the need to pour a basin of water over me every ten minutes. Finally, after what feels like a year, the heat has died, and I step, shaking, out of the shower. The flames, now light orange, flicker weakly across my skin. First they were unbearable. Now, they are barely there. What’s going on? 

Sarah walks in, and the snow around her has thickened to much that I can barely see her face. When she speaks, her words get choked my the thick, fluffy flakes appearing out of nowhere above her head. 

“Bloom,” she stutters. “Bloom, Oliver’s gone to make a call.” 

I start forward, alarmed, but she raises her hand. “Not to Mom or Dad. But I don’t know who. He wouldn’t say. Bloom, something really weird is going on.” 

She swallows, and comes closer. “Bloom, there have been people standing on the road past the river. An hour ago, a man came wanting to talk to you. Bloom, I think they know...” she swallows, and then spits the next words like she wants them out of her system. “I think they know we’re cursed.” 

I gulp, and she grips my hand tightly. 

Suddenly, Oliver bursts through the door, his hair even more wild than it had been that morning. He’s holding a bag, and has a scared look in his eyes. “We have to go,” he says, and his voice is shaking. “Now. They’re here. They know. We have to get out.” 

He looks at us, as if shocked that we aren’t moving. His chest is heaving, and he has on pants, but still hasn’t put on a top. He is very ripped, which I don’t understand. He works at a desk. How can he have muscled. “Let’s go!” he yells. 

“Oliver, you may be our older cousin, but you can’t kick us out of our own house,” Sarah says firmly. He groans, running his hands through his hair, making it stick up even more. 

“I’m not your cousin,” he said finally. “ My name isn’t Oliver. Your parents aren’t your parents. You have to get out of here, your lives are in danger.” 

We stare at him, and he looks right at me, me cousin who isn’t my cousin, my family who isn’t my family. His blue eyes are wide and scared, and desperate. No room for lying. I open my mouth to say something. And the door bursts open. 

Five men dressed all in red come into the room, holding up guns. 

“Don’t move,” one of them orders. “Or we’ll shoot you.” 

I freeze, and at that moment, the flames come bursting back, extending, filling the whole room.