Part of the Cur—There’s a CURSE?! (Ransom 5.1)

Harlow

Where am I?

Red—so much red. Rose fades to crimson and ruby, jagged spikes of scarlet and currant streaked with the deepest of grays and black forming and melting around me. This place is so vast I could fall forever and yet with every heartbeat, I feel as if the walls will crush me. There is nobody here but me but I feel eyes peeling away my skin, staring into my soul. Is my soul made of colors like these?

There are whispers, growing louder as they snake around me and brush my skin. The voice is familiar, but not in the comforting nostalgia kind of way that makes you long for forgotten summers, whispered secrets, and the closeness of people you never knew.

I’m sorry.

I never meant to hurt you.

You’ll never be good enough.

Why are you still here?

Is this how I die? Of all people, why is it you?

Please don’t go.

Please don’t go.

Please don’t go.

My head pounds, and I squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t like the broken words or the way they drag across my skin. When I try to scream, nothing comes out and I fall. Down, down, down...

“Harlow? Harlow?”

The voice is an eternity away, echoing and echoing, ripped away by the whispers. Someone pulls my arm while fingers tentatively touch my face, roaming from my chin to my jaw.

“Are you okay?”

It’s making me nauseous; green bleeds through my eyelids and my stomach lurches. Wherever the fingers touch, my skin burns. The whispers are growing stronger now, but I try to block them out.

I couldn’t move now, even if I wanted to. These dreams terrify me the most—what if I never wake up and I’m trapped here, living out my last moments, powerless to cry for help as my breath is stolen away?

The hands are gone. They’re gone now.

“Uh, Harlow?”

The voice is so loud, my eyes shoot open. Falling backward, I try to untangle my legs from their crossed position and scramble away. As with most things in my life, my effort is admirable but it’s hopeless.

So many questions pile on top of me, but the one I actually manage to get out is, “How do you know my name?”

His eyes dart to the hideous couch sagging under the weight of so many pillows, then the chandelier, and finally back to my face. The shade is different—denim.

After staring for an amount of time to make me uncomfortable, he sighs. “You...don’t know what just happened?”

I narrow my eyes. How stupid did I look? Oh right—the Dorito dust has not magically vanished from my shirt and my hair still looks like...Well, I don’t know what it looks like, but it’s not good. I feel a strange sense of deja vu.

“Uh, I’m no Albert Einstein.” Or maybe I am. We do have the same hairstyle. “But I saw your memories.”

When he just blinks, I feel compelled to tack on a “Right?”

“Um.” Ransom swallows. “Before that, what do you think happened?”

“You saw mine?” When he lowers his chin in the smallest of nods, my heart skips a beat. “Oh no! What in Martin Luther’s sacred name did you see?”

Struggling to sit back up, I grab him by the shoulders. “I swear, if you ever tell a single soul what you saw,” I whisper, pulling him closer, “so help me, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

I tug him closer for added intimidation. Maybe my nose has gotten used to the deathly smell or my deepest secrets were more pressing, but I didn’t feel the immediate need to puke.

“It won’t be pretty, I promise.”

Swallowing, he lifts his elbow and tries to nudge my arm away. “You shouldn’t touch me.”

I snort and push him away. “I have a boyfriend.”

It’s a lie, of course. I’ve never had a boyfriend and the very thought of one causes yellow-tinged greens to swim around me and sweat to pool in my hands.

Ransom shakes his head adamantly. “No, I didn’t mean it like that.”

He’s back to stumbling over his words and orchid pink creeps across his face.

“Do you have a disease or like a fear of germs or something?” Does he think there’s Dorito dust on my fingers, too? Now that I think about it, maybe there is.

When he shakes his head again, even more sand flies from his hair. “W-when I touch someone, that’s how I, uh, see memories.” He searches my face. “And they can see mine.”

Oh. Well, that makes more sense than sea serpents with human faces.

“So you can’t control it?”

“No.”

“Not at all?”

“If I concentrate and pull enough,” he says, gaze dropping to the crusty yogurt patches between us. “I can control which of my memories people see. I can’t stop it from happening.”

Is he like a werewolf, but the limited special serpent edition or something?

“So has it always been like this?”

“No.” He shakes his head yet again. “No, not until the—I bumped into a girl my first cycle.”

Ransom rubs his eyes with the back of his hand and sighs. That’s when I see the letters etched into his skin, peeking out from the too-short hoodie sleeves. I reach to pull the fabric back so I can see better, but I stop myself just in time.

“What’s that, on your wrist?”

He freezes. For a second, I wonder if he’s turned to stone because even his chest doesn’t move.

“Ransom?”

He grunts in reply before pulling the sleeve up and sticking his arm out, palm up. They’re not scars; at least, not like any I’ve seen. No discoloration, just neat, even lines engraved across his wrist.

At first, I can’t make out what the letters spell because they’re upside down. But then I make out an R and the A and I know without looking what the others are.

Ransom.

“It’s part of the curse,” he says.