I don't think I'm cursed.
At least, not in the dramatic, "witch-marked-by-the-devil" kind of way.
No.
My curse is quieter.
It walks with me in hallways, brushes against my fingers when I pass someone crying, and curls up in my chest every time I pretend I'm normal.
Most days, I manage to fake it.
Other days... like today, I burn.
---
It's 6:23 AM. My alarm buzzed twenty minutes ago, but I'm still staring at the ceiling.
I don't want to go to school. I don't want to smile and nod and act like I slept last night when I didn't. Again.
I can feel it in my fingertips—the weight. The itch behind my eyes that says someone nearby is hurting.
That's the worst part of all this.
I don't just feel pain.
I attract it.
And if I choose to, I can take it.
But that choice—it breaks me every single time.
---
I drag myself up, throw on a hoodie, and head to the kitchen. Mom's already left for her early shift at the hospital. She always leaves a sticky note on the fridge. Today it just says:
> "Coffee's ready. Don't forget to breathe. Love you."
I stare at those last two words for a second longer than I should.
---
At school, I try to keep my head down.
But during third period, it happens.
There's this guy—Tyson. Clumsy, tall, football player vibes. He's limping, face pale, and trying to act chill like he didn't just sprain his ankle in gym.
The teacher doesn't notice. No one does.
But I do. Because I feel it. The sharp sting crawling up my own leg like a phantom echo.
And before I can stop myself, I walk over.
"You okay?" I ask, already knowing he's not.
He tries to laugh it off. "Yeah, just twisted it."
I look him in the eyes.
"I can help. But... it's gonna hurt me instead."
He blinks. "What?"
I don't explain. I never do.
I just gently touch his ankle.
And boom—
Pain slams into me like a train. I nearly fall over. Heat floods my leg, white-hot and pulsing. My bones ache like something's snapping.
Tyson jerks back. "What the hell—?"
But his limp is gone.
Mine isn't.
---
I spend the rest of the day pretending I twisted my leg too. People believe it. They always do. It's easier that way.
I don't even know why I helped him.
I didn't like him.
But something in me wanted him to be okay.
That's the rule.
I can only take pain when I truly want to.
And I learned that the hard way.
---
Ten Years Ago
I was six.
It was summer. Sticky-hot. I was sitting on the sidewalk in front of our old apartment, playing with sidewalk chalk, when I saw the bird.
Tiny. Fragile. Lying awkwardly near a storm drain. Its wing was bent, dragging on the ground.
I froze.
It was breathing, barely.
No one was around. Just the hum of traffic and a sprinkler going off somewhere behind me.
I crawled closer and knelt beside it.
It didn't move. Didn't chirp. Just trembled.
I whispered, "Please don't die."
And I meant it. I meant it so hard I felt it in my teeth.
I don't know why I reached out.
I just wanted it to be okay.
---
The second my fingers brushed its feathers, something exploded.
My chest tightened. My vision went blurry. It was like being dropped into boiling water.
I screamed.
The bird shot up—flapping, alive, flying like it was never broken.
And I collapsed.
When I woke up, I was in the ER.
My arm was fractured in two places. My mom said I must've fallen.
I tried to explain. I told her about the bird.
She just stroked my hair and said, "Sweetheart, it was probably already flying away. You were just tired, baby. Just scared."
But I knew.
I knew what I did.
I took its pain.
And it gave me the wound in return.
---
Since then, it's been like that.
If I see someone hurt, and I want to help them—it transfers.
The bruise, the burn, the cut—it leaves them and becomes mine.
But if I don't mean it?
If I don't care?
Nothing happens.
No pain. No magic. Just silence.
---
People think being a healer is beautiful.
It's not.
It's lonely. It's terrifying.
And sometimes I wonder—how much pain can one person carry before they start to fall apart?
That Night
I'm wrapped in my blanket like a soggy burrito and trying not to cry over the bruise blooming down my thigh.
Spoiler: failing.
My leg still feels like it got hit by a bus. I iced it with a bag of frozen peas and stole two of Mom's extra-strength painkillers. They barely made a dent.
Anyway. Diary time. Because who needs therapy when you have ruled pages and a pen that leaks blue ink?
> Dear Paper (you're the only one who gets it),
I did the thing again.
Helped someone I didn't even like. Tyson freaking Rivers. The human equivalent of a football helmet. I don't even know why.
Maybe because I saw the way he winced and still tried to laugh, like pain was some joke. Maybe because something inside me needed to help him. Needed to make sure he could walk without limping.
And now guess what? I'm the one limping. I even faked a sprain like a champ. Gold medal in acting, zero in life decisions.
I wish I could say it felt heroic.
It didn't. It just hurt.
I keep thinking about that bird from when I was six. How I screamed and no one believed me. I keep wondering how many bruises, how many burns I'll collect before I just... break.
I feel like a broken first-aid kit. One that heals others but leaks all the damage inside.
And maybe it's dumb, but... I'm scared.
What if one day, I can't help someone I care about?
What if I want to—but the pain is too much?
What if I fail?
Ugh. I sound like a sad Netflix drama.
Anyway. I'm tired. My leg's on fire. And I have gym tomorrow, which should be illegal.
Please don't let me explode. Or accidentally heal another linebacker.
Goodnight, Paper.
– The Human Sponge for Pain