SARAH'S CURSE
by Kevin R. Bridges
Anthony stood at the foot of the driveway, scratching his arms, searching the windows for movement. He approached the front door.
I can't waste time, he thought. I could die right here.
He knocked, expecting no answer. His own neighborhood was a lane of almost all empty houses, and this one was no different. He could see Ames Highway at the end of the street. Once a thoroughfare, it had become an asphalt flatland.
He heard the doorknob rattle, and wanted to run. Who would it be? Sarah's sister? Her dad? Who was going to inform him that Sarah was dead?
But she wasn't. She stood, framed by the doorway, wearing cotton shorts and a tee, no makeup, her dark hair in a bun.
“Anthony.”
“Hey. I was...,” he trailed off. It was the end of the world, and he was still like a school kid with a crush. “I guess I just wanted to see how you were doing.”
“Oh, I'm fine. Come in.”
She took his jacket and paused when she saw the scratches on his forearms. Pangala Syndrome's only real symptom (besides death) was the Itch. It was a warning. Anthony had three days left, at most. That time limit had become one of the most reliable parts of life.
“It's not contagious,” he said, “so...”
“Oh, I know. Do you want some water?”
There was nobody else around. He understood why when he looked into the back yard. There were two mounds of bare dirt, the length and width of a person, with homemade crosses beside them. The names of Sarah's sister and Mother were written on the crosses in Sharpie.
“How long has it been?” she asked from the kitchen.
“Maybe six months.” Six months and four days, he thought.
She brought him water. “Jesus, my legs aren't even shaved,” she said, “Just give me a minute.”
“You look fine.” She looked amazing.
“Just give me a minute.” She hurried off.
The wall above the fireplace was decorated with framed photographs of her family. Around and between them someone had taped loose photos, notes, pieces of fabric, a lock of hair. It was a memorial. Anthony had put up some pictures at the memorial downtown, but he didn't have anything like this.
When Sarah came back, she was transformed. She had been pretty before. With her hair down, though, and just a little makeup, she was striking. She smelled like strawberries and vanilla.
She sat on the other couch. “So, my dad left.”
“He left?”
“Mom started itching her arms, and he freaked out. He was gone the next morning.” Her voice was steady, but her eyes glistened.
“You had to bury her by yourself?” He kicked himself immediately for the insensitive question.
“Yeah. We dug the hole together.”