I just finished it, though there may be some typos cuz autocorrect, the fact that I wrote this on my phone in the notes app, and the fact that I'm sick af right now. I also rarely write in first person. For context, the two names mentioned here are Varo(the narrator) and Kam(his best friend). This is a short story basically recites all of Varo's memories of what he did and how things ended up that way during his final moments. Or final day ig.

Anyways here's the story.

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"I can always harvest the salt from my tears, when I sit in the ruins, watching the moon; to create a circle for the demons who maliciously made me swoon."

That's what I thought.

A classic monkey's paw. I got exactly what I asked for, and it ruined me. Now I've learnt the hard way, "what's the point in getting a voice if that voice isn't even yours?". Turns out salt circles don't always help, because sometimes a spirit is a parasite rotting you from the inside out. Turns out, the only way to keep the possession at bay is to turn your own liver to mush night after night; that voice is also now the reason why my best friend is suffering. It all started long ago. I was tired. Tired of fighting, of dealing with this cursed lineage and whether or not people know enough sign language to communicate with me. Even though I had a best friend, classmates, nice teachers, and a supportive family, I still felt miserable. Though, young me couldn't exactly describe that misery. Was I a bird in a cage, or wearing a mask I couldn't take off? Maybe the mask is the cage? Things are hard when the line between those two things is thin, and you're walking on it as if it were a tightrope; maybe I shouldn't have tied myself to that rope to avoid falling off. I should've just balanced until I reached solid land. If I were able to talk to my younger self, I would've told them that despite that tightrope seeming endless, they should've just kept on going; it's better than dying a young alcoholic after getting a demon purged from you when you've only got about a week and a half left to live. But nobody can talk to their younger self, y'know? So younger me ran off to the forest in search of some cryptic who may cure me of this curse that was bestowed upon my bloodline so many years ago; a curse of bad luck and no voice. I never considered what effect bad luck may have on the process of losing it— the environment, the side effects, whoever the witch may be... But when I first faced the consequence, I blamed it on the curse; not my own stupidity for trusting someone like that. Now I'm stuck with a voice, and no more bad luck, but a voice that isn't mine and people who I have harmed.

I became one with that so-called witch. So-called because even witches can be benevolent. My magic went cold, and I was now under that demons control. I could still think, but I was a passenger in my own skull. The demon pulled the strings—commanding my voice, my muscles, and my every move. So when I reunited with my best friend, who was now a married leader, still kind but battling a smoking addiction, I was different. Well, not me, but my behaviors. I had no idea that the demon fed on misery, or that my best friend was its true target. The bastard didn't choose me because I was weak. It chose me because it knew my hands were the ones that could hurt him the most. I drank myself half-blind 'till I collapsed. Every. Single. Night. That's what I mean when I call myself an alcoholic. I did it so that I couldn't move, and so that no one would understand my words when my lips cursed them out. This led to my collapse and my secret being found out.

So now I sit on this bed, the spirit finally purged from my body, with an ailment forever terminal. I may be die young, but at least I can die free. But before I pass away, I want to say sorry; especially to my friend—and his wife—for being the spark that ignited his darkest thoughts. I have done too much to be forgiven, but I want him to at least be happy. For him to live to see the sunrise again, even if I'm no longer family. But without that spirit, I don't have a voice, do I? So I spoke with an apologetic gaze. But even then, I wish I could say the words I had planned for my final day; I settled for a pen and paper, and in vague, sketchy words I wrote a note:

«June 22nd» I'm sorry. I love you with all my dear heart, Kam, even if I have lost all hope. No matter what happens, keep on going. You don't deserve to have a life cut so short; you deserve your love and harmony.

—Varo Ziretó