Torn Pages | A Zodiac Story

3. SCHLIMAZL

SCHLIMAZL (n.) Yiddish — a chronically unlucky person 

— Toll on, the passinge-bell;

ring out my dolefull knell;

let thy sounde my death tell.

Death dothe drawe ny;

there is no remedie —

October 23, 1781

Caerdydd, Wales

     The last thing he remembered was somebody crying above him. Not his dad- his dad seemed to make it a mission to not show emotions near his children. Not anymore, at least. Not his older siblings- they had cursed his name, wished him death. Not his younger siblings- he had done them wrong, this he knew and accepted. He wasn't expecting any tears of sympathy. Outside, the wind howled.

     He was so, so sick. He sunk into the floor, back aching from hours of laying on the thin mattress digging into its frame. His skin was melting. His joints were stiff. Every blink was like pouring acid straight into his eyes, every breath set his heart on fire. With blurry eyesight he managed to make out a vague blob, its shadow weaving back and forth in front of the candlelight.

     His sister. After everything, she came to take care of him. After everything, she loved him. How selfish he was.

     "Stay awake," she sniffled, setting down her candlestick in order to angrily smack his chest with a pillow. "Get up! Get up!" All he could do was let out a pained whimper as she wailed. "You are such a... a..." her half-hearted insult was interrupted by another shower of tears, which fell onto his frozen face, rolling pathetically onto the floor.

     Like this they stayed for an embarrassing amount of time, brother and sister, reunited by nothing but sheer desperation, listening to rhythmical pattering of rain on the window.

     "Huna'n dawel, heno... huna," she started to sing softly, voice cracking on the last word. Fat tears gathered into her eyes as she continued to force out the words. "Huna'n fwyn, y tlws ei lun. Pam yr wyt yn awr yn gwenu-" she broke off with a sob. How he wished he could move. All he could manage was to stare up at her with misty eyes of regret and apologies.

     Speak, goddammit! Why couldn't he speak anymore?

     "Gwenu'n dirion yn dy hun?" his sister managed to finish. Her eyes told him that she knew he was sorry. Why are you smiling, gently in your sleep? Are angels smiling above you?

     She waited for him to say something. He didn't. With a disappointed sigh, she stood above him. She crossed herself. She recited the Hail Mary a couple of times. She left, hesitating at the doorway before disappearing from sight.

     He felt himself drift into unconsciousness, and about an hour later, woke to see his youngest sibling, his sister Irene, standing above him. In her hands was a glass.

     "Why won't he die yet?" She asked, frowning with childlike curiosity, curls falling out of its delicate ponytail. The second youngest of his siblings, Eilwen, gasped.

     "You can't say that!" he hissed.

     "But that's what Father is asking!" Irene retorted. He felt his heart break. "He says we should just forget about 'im."