dusts of stories ⁺˚*･༓☾

curses

trigger warning// violence, mental illness, blood

His silhouette lingered on Bowery street. With a myriad of stars and a luminous moon hiding behind the veils of gloomy cloud cover, only the dim glow from a flickering candle on his shaky hand illuminated the path. He sighed, staring at the trace his breath had left in the freezing winter air. He was used to it, the filthy, shabby way of living on the streets. He was tired of it, the glares he had gotten and the rumours that flew around. He was sick of it, having to wear the tin emblems with astrological signs when reciting the prolonged, tedious prayers every day.

"It was the spirit. It was a curse."

Everybody living on Bowery Street whispered these exact words as they walked past him. They stared at him when he wasn't looking, pointed at him when he was under the curse. They told their families about him, turning his life into a tale of folklore. Words spread fast; soon, everyone from town knew about his existence and his psychotic behaviours. News travelled quick; anon, medical astrologers approached with astral talismans, describing them as "possible cures". Rumours flew swift; erelong, he was named "the freak on Bowery Street".

He looked at the scars and bruises on his arms– the throbbing blood sealed underneath a thin, maroon line; the swollen skin– some yellow with time, some red with youth. He had learnt over the years how to make a bruise stop hurting: press it again and again with a finger. The first time it inflicted a bolt of piercing pain that his eyes were moist. The second time it was a bit better. The thirteenth time, there was barely any sting.

This time, however, the pain didn't stop. The tears didn't stop either.

He couldn't quite remember when and how it started, all he knew was he felt more and more disoriented as days went by. Confused by his variation in emotions. Confused by his turbulent actions. Confused by his idiosyncrasy. He recalled his first encounter with the demon— his mind had been in a ceaseless spiral, with the swirling thoughts racing like a tornado. All the discontent and injustice he felt in the past were piled up, crashing onto him all at once. His chest felt like being squeezed into a minuscule rubber tube, with no lights and no air, just overwhelming darkness and the devil. He remembered so vividly, seeing the devil reaching out its bony hand, as if lending him a helping hand while threatening him to succumb.

And so he did. He gave in and relaxed, still coaxed on the floor with sweat.

From then on, his visit to the devil became more and more frequent. It was always the same procedure: as the pyramid of grievances and resentment collapsed, he entered a world full of darkness. He could not see. He could not think. He could only see a pale-white, scrawny hand reaching towards him in his vision, its skin so thin he could see the flesh underneath. Then after minutes of doubt, he gave in, every time.

He knew that it had to stop. He knew that by accepting the devil's hand, he was agreeing to be controlled. He knew that he was possessed. And yet... despite the number of times he reminded himself, despite the amount of time he spent to recite the lines he would say on his next encounter, he still capitulated over and over again. Perhaps it was the significant amount of power the devil had over him. Perhaps he wasn't trying hard enough. Perhaps he was born this way. His only way to make himself feel better, or at least to feel less guilty, was to join the flagellants. He journeyed with them from town to town, whipping one another as a way to repent. He whipped with as much force as he could, as if it could be a way to relive his perplexity, a way to express his sins, a way to be cured.

"It was the spirit. It was a curse."

His mother used to mutter over and over again, each time with a deeper frown on her face. When she finally couldn't stand his possession anymore, she let him wander. Never once did he regret his decision to leave home, never once did he turn back. In fact, he was relieved that he escaped from the bloodshed house, and secretly hoped he would never have to sit in the corner of the house again, soaked with his own blood.

But today, he was determined to leave his past behind. Today, he could sense that something different would come along. Perhaps a miracle would fall upon him, washing away all the places the devil had touched. Perhaps the curse would fade away. Or perhaps it was time to start over.

Along with the blinking flame that was guiding him, he disappeared under the night sky. Into the darkness. Into the unknown.

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Throughout history, mental health issues have been severely misunderstood. As people had used supernatural theories to explain mental illnesses, magical approaches like rituals and exorcism had played rather significant parts in the treatment of mental illnesses. The Middle Ages, perhaps, was one of the periods where mentally ill people suffered the most. Since medical practices were overtaken by Christianity, physical abuse such as beatings, torture and exile were common. Some patients were locked away in jails, some were left alone to find their own place in the world.

Written 12 Nov 22 - 13 Nov 22