Olivia's Curse

Chapter Sixteen

This time, I ran home.

And even though Mum told me they would be out all day, the house wasn't empty when I returned. Apparently, Dad had gone upstairs to check on me, only to find a scene from a horror film awaiting him.

"What did you do to yourself?" he asked me repeatedly.

He was referring to my arm. And the blood in the bathroom...

...and the disaster that was my bedroom.

"How did you do this?"

Dad brandished my arm in his hand, carelessly waving it around as if I was a toy. I cried out in pain, but he was so caught up in anger that he didn't notice. From the kitchen counter, he picked up a bloodied rag, and he used it to clean the wound.

"Why didn't you go to a hospital? We have to take you to the hospital!"

"No!" I shouted, yanking my arm from his grasp. "No hospital."

Agitated, Dad threw his arms into the air. "Why won't you let us help you?" he demanded. "Must you always be so difficult?"

I couldn't blame him for his anger, or the words he said because of it. But I could blame him for believing this incident was indicative of my general behaviour.

I laughed bitterly, a scowl resting on my lips. "I'm so sorry my accident was such an inconvenience."

In a shocking twist, it was my mother who replied.

"Did someone do this to you sweetheart?" she asked me. "If someone did this to you, you can tell us."

Was my mother so hell-bent on conspiracy theories that she genuinely believed our family couldn't do nasty things?

"It was an accident," I insisted with a heavy sigh. "I was dancing around my room, and I fell into the mirror."

The cover story I told Liam was the same one I gave to my parents. I adapted it by adding the part about my dancing; I read once that to make a lie more believable you have to add little details. Dancing was the only thing I could come up with. I knew it sounded stupid.

"It barely has a crack in it, sweetheart." Mum frowned and brushed a flyaway hair from my forehead. "How would it cut your arm like that?"

"Why would someone break into our house to throw me into a mirror?" I countered.
They hadn't found the broken phone when they investigated my room. For that, I was thankful.

"Is it drugs?" my father asked me with a solely expression. "Because if it's drugs you can tell us."

Because, of course, the only explanation for my behaviour was that I'd finally descended into drug use at the ripe old age of sixteen. Then again, that was probably more believable than my phone spontaneously exploding and cutting me to pieces.

"I'm not on drugs!" I cried. The entire situation was ridiculous. "Will you just let me go to sleep?"

"Oh, now you want to sleep? You've been God-knows-where all day!"

That was another thing I was grateful for; they hadn't seen the news yet. I was dreading the moment they turned on the local news to see me smiling next to Brandon. It was one of the many reasons I so desperately wanted to escape to my room.

"Can I go to my room or not?" I demanded.

Dad looked to my mother for her decision. Mum was a nurse at the local hospital, so she knew whether my condition was serious.

She'd taken the plunge into education when I was seven and said it was because she finally felt comfortable leaving me with a babysitter. I knew the real reason: Dad forced her into it when he got fed up of paying all the bills.

After a moment of tension, Mum nodded. "I'll pick up some antibiotics at work tomorrow. But apart from that, she'll live."

I didn't wait for my father's blessing. I ran from the kitchen and up the stairs, hearing them shout after me as I fled.

I didn't turn back.

It was bright daylight in my bedroom, made worse by the stripes of light that protruded through my slashed curtains. The place that used to be my solitude was unrecognizable. The bed, the floor, and the decorations were all covered in dark and taunting bloodstains. If I didn't know any better, I'd think I had murdered someone there.

Mum stitched up my arm, and Dad had cleaned it. It was a remarkable display of teamwork from them. Admittedly, the cut looked significantly better than earlier—mostly because it had stopped oozing.

For the first time in my life, I knew that I was unfair on my parents. They had a right to be concerned. In fact, it wouldn't surprise me if they called the police and had me sectioned. If my daughter—if I had a daughter—showed up on a Saturday afternoon covered in blood and sweating, I would worry too.

The truth was I was scared to be around them. Not because of anything they did. No, I was scared for them. With this new knack for danger, I was terrified of my capabilities.

What did the candles, the pyre, the phone, and the steam have in common?

Fire.

And boy, did my parents hate fire.

The flames on my birthday cake grew and engulfed my curtains. My skin burned Liam to the touch during the witch burning. My phone exploded—that meant it overheated, right? Doesn't water turn to steam under extremely high temperatures?

Fire was following me, in an intense case of irony.

Sirens wailed in the distance, and I shut my window to block them out. As I did, I saw a fire engine speeding down the street.

Maybe I did that too, I thought darkly.

I was being ridiculous. All three events had been extreme and unrelated. There was no way I had caused them. It was just another tool the universe used to make fun of me. But I thought back to Daniella's terrified expression, and I couldn't help but feel guilty.

Someone banged on the front door, and I heard my mother scream in fright. Immediately after, loud voices filled the corridor. The only thing that stopped me from going to investigate, was the sharp sound of a rock hitting my window.

"Olivia!" I heard a hushed shout from outside.

The voices downstairs grew stronger.

"We just need to speak to her, Mrs. Peterson," they insisted. "She isn't in any trouble."

"Then why are there police in my house?" Mum replied.

My eyes widened. The police?