The Finch Curse

prologue

The Finch Curse — "On one's tenth birthday, if they are to encounter a finch before midnight, they will forever be cursed."

The curse never really "explained" itself, at least not explicitly. It was almost a bit too vague, to be honest, especially to the average Joe Shmo who knew nor cared little for folk tales and skepticism. Admittedly, it very much sounded like a playground rumor, or a creepy pasta like Bloody Mary. Or even every school's myth of a dead kid in the bathroom.

To be honest, it sounded even less believe than those. At least most creepy pastas and horror stories had some kind of established lore to make it somewhat believable. It wasn't like a government official was the one who died in the boys bathroom. Hopefully.

Of course, with this kind of doubt circling the curse, little to no one believed in it. And, admittedly, they should've been a little more careful. After all, only so much can be passed off as coincidence before the possibilities whittle away.

America

It had been a sweltering summer day. One of those happier scoring hot days, though. It was one  of those summer days where you hosted pool parties, or ran off to your friend's house to eat ice pops with them, or stayed cooped up in the shade and sat in front of the fan for hours on end.

It was a special occasion too, for the USA at least.

July 4th.

The Fay's events awaited him — welcomed him, even. It was bright, and cheery, and everyone loved him—at least for today. Not everyone would celebrate with him, of course they wouldn't. But there were the few who did. The few who believed in the new little country, who barely wasn't a colony anymore. That would've been enough.

There was doubt—there was always doubt, of course, it never hurt to be cautious, but by the end of the day, people payed little mind. It was hours before midnight, half a hour, then a few minutes.

The myth was clear, you had to actually see and make contact with a finch. Of course, it was harmful to be cautious, as finches were always out there, lingering a short distance from his window — despite appearing only on the rare occasion. But, really? Would America somehow miraculously spot a finch form his bedroom window — moments before midnight nonetheless. Everyone had thought that, and everyone had moved on.

Everyone had forgotten.

And then it happened, all too casually.

As though it was a normal occurrence.

As if, everyday finches came to your windowsill and sang for you in the dead of the night, as the clock chimed midnight, and the moon hung high in the sky, illuminating the forest below. As the wind was still, and the crickets stopped chirping, and the fireflies withheld their glow for just that brief moment. But of course it wasn't.

And like a twisted wish, the curse came true.

The next morning, he woke up, and his life had been turned upside. His face was a flag that wasn't his own. And so too was everyone else.

His mother seemed almost the same, yet her flag had been flipped. He knew it almost immediately; the revolutionary days. The few days that a republic existed, before devolving into chaos. Then again. And then again. And the repeated bouts of a monarchy. And the regret of never helping—the regret of watching her as she struggled for long to piece herself together. He knew he couldn't do much at the time.

By most standards, he was a developing nation, and nothing compelled him to disagree. In fact, it stayed mostly true up until the late 1800's; a time so painfully close yet far to the modern day. At the time, the nation was still grappling with just about everything, and civil war was on the horizon. He knew he couldn't have done anything. That didn't stop the feeling of snakes writing within him, though.