Page 2 of Moros

From my job to my apartment, there were thirteen stops.

The ride bypassed two wealthy neighbourhoods, an abandoned attempt at a gated community and into my neighbourhood, a place where they warned women not to walk alone at nights.

And after what I’d been through that night, I was one of the most dangerous things on that street.

Slowly, the bus emptied.

People looking exhausted and just plain over life.

Who was I to judge?

Hell, I was over life the moment my mother popped me out.

According to my file from the group home I aged out of, I was born dead.

One of my foster mothers, who sent me back, joked that I’d always been a zombie.

She sent me back to the home because she believed that I was cursed—that I was the bringer of death and bad luck would always follow me.

Another foster mother tried putting me through an exorcism in her backyard.

Luckily, a neighbour realized what was happening and called the police.

They showed up just as the woman was trying to drown me in holy water.

With the way my life turned out—I really couldn’t say she didn’t have a point about the cursed thing.

And while I would love to get rid of said curse, it wouldn’t have been a good look to have drowned in holy water on my gravestone.

I was about to try and see if my phone had any battery left when I looked outside to see I was coming up to my stop. Straightening my spine to make myself taller, I rang the bell, and made my way to the back door.

“Thank you!” I hollered.

“Welcome—be safe walking home!” The driver called.

Waving, I descended the steps as the doors slid open.

Waiting for it to leave to ensure I wasn’t followed off, I clutched my purse to my side and hurried along the desolate road toward my apartment. The walk would take about five minutes if I put my back into it, longer if I crawled along.

It was then I realized my palms were burning.

The street was barely lit but I could make out scrapes that were now getting clogged with blood as they grew older and weren’t cleaned.

I should have kicked the fucker harder.

By the time I entered my place, the adrenaline crash was real.

I showered, suffering through the burns from all the scrapes, then stood naked in front of the full-length mirror I bought at a thrift store two years before.

I inspected my body to see where my injuries were—my right hip was bruised and I knew I’d have trouble walking the next day. There was a gash on my right forearm, and I could see that when I woke up, my face would looked like I survived two rounds with Jackie Buntan.

Twisting one way, then the other, I noticed what I’d always thought.

I wasn’t sexy—my body wasn’t tight or special.

I had scars from fights I’d gotten into as a kid, and while I’d lost some weight over the past year, it still had its imperfections.

None of that made me happy but it was what it was.

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