Page 45 of Below the Shadow of the City

If anyone’s a fool it’s me. Only a fool would question someone’s motives after listening to their romcom-esque monologue convincing you to stay days after dropping everything to care for them. My bottom lip has been chewed raw at this point, there’s a warm metallic taste on my tongue. I stay silent for too long and he shakes his head in frustration.

He backs up towards the door to his side and raises his arms in defeat. “You’re gonna have to make a decision, Sigrid. I’d probably wait for you forever, but it’ll kill me if I have to.” The door shuts and the sound reverberates through the laundry room. I’m back where I started a few weeks ago, alone down here in the middle of the night questioning what’s wrong with me.

When I get back to my apartment, my door feels heavier than normal. As if it’s no longer made of shitty pine and is instead a steel door to a stony fortress. I resign that I’ll stay trapped in my chambers as long as I can.

It’s been a decade since I’ve been cursed. There was no formal spell, no wave of a magic wand, merely words spoken like an incantation that will haunt me until I die.

I was eighteen. I’d been moved out of my parents house for a month, was scraping quarters off the sidewalk to pay for my laundry, and had only had two fleeting high school relationships.

I had box-dyed black hair, a fresh septum piercing, and a pair of worn Doc Martens that made me feel cool enough to pass in Williamsburg. I’d moved here on a whim, the neighborhood was romanticized on Tumblr pages and indie movies. Instead, I’d swiftly learned that I’d need to commute to Manhattan to make any real money, and that all the cool artsy people already were friends with one another. And they certainly didn’t have room for a Long Island suburbanite dressed in an indie sleaze costume.

I’d been paired with another host during my shift I’d yet to meet previously. And he was everything. Shaved head and a chiseled jawline, with piercings that studded his face like crown jewels. His green eyes were like two glowing emeralds and the gold bridge piercing between them gave them an otherworldly glint.

He certainly didn’t look like a wizard or warlock. And I’ve given him too much power over me for the better part of a decade because my first meeting with him had me utterly spellbound.

“Your natural brunette would suit your skin tone better, love,” was the first thing he’d said to me. I looked painfully stupid, I’m positive my jaw was hanging on the floor. He twirled a finger around a piece of my hair before I could respond, “I have someone in Hell’s Kitchen who could fix this up, for cheap too.” He had a slight British accent, like he’d maybe spent some formative years there before crossing the pond.

I was still silent. Terrified to be perceived and embarrassed at this point. Of course the black dye looked awful, I’d spent ten bucks and a few hours after taking half an edible getting it to that point. And he was so fucking gorgeous he shouldn’t have even glanced at me, let alone spoken to me.

“Freddie, by the way,” he extended his hand, offering some weird professionalism after the backhanded compliment. Though, I was still searching for the compliment underneath his comment.

“Sigrid,” my name sounded stodgy and ancient compared to his snappy shortened one.

I stumbled through my shift, constantly distracted by the way his husky voice soothed irritated restaurant patrons, and how cool she was under pressure. I wanted to be as cool as him, I wanted to know him, and kiss him, and so many other things that I didn’t think were possible with someone I’d met hours before.

We each got handed envelopes with our tip payout, money I usually put towards slightly better groceries or maybe a single meal out. I was counting the dollars when Freddie cleared his throat, “wanna grab a drink? I know a spot three blocks over that does industry happy hour after midnight.”

I don’t remember if I verbally agreed or if I just nodded aggressively, but I do remember Freddie’s strong hand pulling mine across streets to an unassuming dive. If one didn’t notice the small neon rose sign, and knew that it was a bar, it would go entirely unnoticed.

We each had a few beers, and he grew increasingly close as the night progressed and drinks were finished. His soft hands trailed up my forearms, and his dark eyes focused intently on me, rapt with each word.

Talking with him grew easier, and before I could process it, we were kissing. Both of us leaned over on our barstools, my hands clutched around his thighs, and our lips tangling with the taste of cheap beers and bar peanuts.

And then I was tossed into a six month whirlwind with him. He pulled me into his orbit, introduced me to his cool friends, had me change my hair, and morphed me into someone else. Through this metamorphosis, I’d discovered bits and pieces of my true self as the line between who the real me was and the person Freddie wanted had blurred.

I grew more resistant to his encouraged changes, I fought back his backhanded comments. The black box dye didn’t return, but pieces of the old me did. I didn’t think I needed to turn into a complete stranger in order to be loved by someone.

On a night when Freddie was supposed to take me to an exclusive music club, I showed up in a dress I loved and hadn't worn in months. He’d described it as something “a goth kindergarten teacher would wear” and I shoved it in the back of my closet. I loved it, and knew I looked good in it. So, I wore it and showed up at his apartment to meet with her, and was met with complete and utter disgust.

She pulled me into another room and rifled through his roommate’s closet for something he deemed more appropriate for such an occasion, making comments about my weight, height, and anything else that made me seem “less” than him.

“Why do I need to change at all? Why can’t I wear what I want?” My voice shook, but I couldn’t let myself cry in front of him, he would coolly tell me it was childish to.

He spun around and I saw something cross his face that was equal parts pity and annoyance. “Don’t you realize you’re so much better now? I made you, you were nothing, borderline pathetic when we met. You’re actually becoming someone people might like now, and you’re going to throw that all away?”

“But, you love me, don’t you? That’s why you took me out the night we met, why you’ve stayed…” I asked in something that was more like a plea. I was metaphorically on my knees begging for something. He laughed, a witches cackle almost.

“Oh Sigrid, how could anyone truly love you?” He cupped my chin and stroked my cheek. He planted a kiss on my forehead and guided me swiftly out the door. I felt something physically change in me, I didn’t see pixie dust settle, but I felt thoroughly coated in some sort of dark magic.

“How could anyone truly love you” has echoed in my thoughts every day since.

It’s probably completely ridiculous to give a singular person so much power over me. If Freddie wasn’t the one who cursed me, then it certainly is a wild coincidence. Chalk it up to self-fulfilling prophecies, ancient amulets, or something else intangible. I knew exactly from the moment he said it what my eternal fate would be.

Freddie set off a line of cursed endings, all of which I wholeheartedly believe were earned. There was Max, who cheated on me with a girl who shared my features but was notably thinner. There was Jake, who split up with me on my birthday hours before my party. A handful of others who hardly stood to be remembered and hurt all the same at the time. All of them lead to the final blow, Perrie. Who just texted me again.

I really want to talk.

I anticipate a second message that says “you can’t ignore me forever.” I can, can’t I? I can wash myself of her existence, and the way she abandoned me now. I grieved her loss for months while she was traipsing all over the UK. I didn’t respond to her first message, and I’m tempted to block her after the second until I decide that feels like letting her win. As if blipping her from existence now would remind her of her hold on me.