The Curse

I was born with a curse.

No, that's not quite right. I had the curse before I was born. Now how do I know that? How do I? I don't know.

I'm probably the only person alive who remembers being born.

Maybe because it hurt so much.

It was dark, dark and warm. Quiet, too, for a little while. But then, amidst the dark and the warm and the comfort, a long, piercing wail cut through everything. I've never felt such pain. My newly formed, squishy body was being ripped apart by knives. I knew nothing but pain and loud screams.

And then a knife cut through the darkness, and bathed me in acid light.

Every breath tore through me like a hurricane, although I couldn't think that at the time, because I didn't know what breath was, or hurricanes, or metaphors. All I knew was pain and noise.

And then, all at once, there was no more pain. And the noise was silent. For a moment. But then the noise was replaced by new noise— voices, murky and distant like water, but still sharp and loud and painful.

And then all the noise stopped, except for a man in the corner who made a quiet noise— crying. And slowly my warmth faded. The body around me was cold and still. That's not right. I don't know how I knew, but even then I knew something was wrong. The air around me felt like lead.

That's my curse.

I feel what those around me feel. When a friend is sad, I am sad, but multiplied by a billion. I don't just feel sad, I feel Sad. With a capital letter.

But today it ends. Today I will have no more curse. Because now I know the truth:

My mother had the curse, too. She passed it on to me. And there's only room for one empath, so she passed on.

Now I'm relinquishing my gift. Selling it. I can't live with this curse anymore. Too much pain. Too much dark. Not enough light.

I'm sorry, my baby. I won't be around to name you, or raise you. I won't be around to help you manage your curse. But chin up, every curse can be passed on.

"Ms. Warren, push. Push! Just a little further!" I scrunch my body up like a crumpled wad of paper. Finally I experience firsthand the pain my mother went through. Then, a wail. The wail of my child. It won't be long now. Soon, my curse will be lifted.

"Ms. Warren, congratulations." Congrats? What? That's not what's supposed to happen. I shouldn't be alive. I—

"What do you want to name her?" It takes all my energy to sit up, and as I look into the blue, blue eyes of my baby, the perfect name comes to mind. It's the name of the feeling blossoming in my chest, a name that originated from my home country of Italy:

Amadora: the gift of love.

I might still carry my curse, and maybe Amadora will as well, but we will carry it together. And for all the pain it brings, she will always know the one feeling that makes it all worth it:

Love.