I taint everything I touch. It all withers and dies. It’s been like this ever since I was a child. Dad left, Mum died of tuberculosis…
The dark hand of death comes out of my chest like a tentacle ready to grasp its prey and I cannot do anything to stop it.
I turn to the written word to forget my sorrows and create black tales of fear and horror. It does help a bit … sometimes. I also turn to the bottle and it blesses me with the oblivion I crave.
But nothing can help me now. The love of my life is dying and I'm unable to alleviate her pain.