A very, very bad kid

Atropos is the youngest of the three Fates. Horrific, cruel, terrifying sisters the Fates, yes, but Atropos is the worst of them . That is because she's the one who decides how death will come to you. If you have been a good kid, you have nothing to be afraid of. But the story I'm about to tell you is the story of a very, very bad kid.

The year was 1960 and the month was March, just 40 days before Easter. The place was a tiny greek village, surrounded by mountains, right next to the river of the Dead; Acheron is, up to this day, a place kids swim and play and, well, sometimes die.

Now, before you'll learn about the worst crime that ever took place at this ancient and sacred place, you must understand something. I was not there. I was not born yet. But the curse created that time haunts my family up to this day. So, naturally, I was told this story on my deathbed. It was the exact time my mother realized she's going to lose me when she grabbed my hand and told me that a mom should never bury her child. But what's even worse, a mom should never try to bring back the child she buried.

Yes, it all started in 1960 and today, at my thirty years of living I should never have been so young and yet so weak, my skin should never have been so pale and my poor heart should never have been about to give up on me, if it wasn't for Helena's sins.

Helena was a bitter woman. It wasn't her fault, so please don't blame her. She was a bitter woman, because she was a sick woman. Helena was born with a soul full of sadness at a time that sadness couldn't be cured. Especially if you were a woman. Unfortunately, she wasn't beautiful, either. Her gloomy face wouldn't do her natural lack of beauty any favors.

Helena grew up being teased. She carried the name of the most beautiful woman that ever lived, a woman for whom the greeks and the trojans fought for ten relentless years. Helena was her mother's agony and her father's problem, as no one was willing to marry her. Back then people believed that sadness is contaminating. "If it wasn't illegal, I would put her down like a dog", her father said one day and poor Helena heard him, but her already bitter soul couldn't get hurt any more.

Unfortunately for me, they didn't put her down like a dog. They got rid of her instead. In fact, she married an ancestor of mine, whose name is not important and who only married her because the money her family gave him, was indeed a small fortune.

Helena got married and she left her paternal house. Everybody was relieved; her parents got rid of her. Her husband got rich out of her. And she got the chance to believe, even for a minute, just for one second, she could be happy. Or, at least, not sad anymore.

After nine months, Helena gave birth to a boy and, against all odds, she did feel happy. She was happy for two whole years. She was happy until March of 1960, when her toddler got sick. They brought him to the hospital in the big city, far from their village. Helena would spend the next three nights sleeping in a chair next to her boy.

It was the morning of March the 11th, at 8.03am when the poor child left his last breath. He rolled his eyes and he was gone.

Helena lost it. She screeched and screamed and willowed, but only for a minute. Her brain couldn't process this insufferable loss. Helena grabbed her baby boy, hold him into her arms, took a taxi and returned to her village where, to everyone's surprise, she announced; "He is healed!"

But he was not healed. And as the days went by, Helena, believing her son was alive, refused to bury him. She also refused to allow anyone near him. She was only worried he wouldn't eat. That was until March the 14th, when she woke up because of an awful, rotting smell.

Unable to accept her boy now belonged to Hades, Helena took his little, blue and swallowed body and put him in a barrel full of vinegar to prevent his decay.

The whole village got upset. After all, it was only 40 days before Easter. I am sure you can only imagine the depth of the blasphemy. Everyone tried to bring her back to her senses. The priest, the mayor, two very old women who lived there before the oaks were even plant on the riverside and their sister; a woman younger than them, more terrifying and stricter than Death.

Helena wouldn't care about anyone of them. And they wouldn’t persist any longer. After all, their job was done and facing a woman’ s sorrow was not on their job description. Nevertheless, the reek coming from her son's rotting body disturbed even the vultures, who were now unwilling to wait for a feast of this specific little body.

Helena had no choice. She did have a plan, but a choice she had not. She took her child, washed his body in the Acheron River and promised he'll see her son again.

Then, she began digging up a hole with her bare hands. Her fingers were bleeding, and worms would crawl up to her elbows, but Helena was unstoppable. She broke seven of them, so she cut them off with her teeth, she threw them on the open grave and then she put her son's tiny body next to them. With the promise that she'll bring him back in 40 days, at Easter, just like Jesus once returned from the dead.

The very next day, Helena visited a woman who was living nearby. It was said that Lucia was a direct offspring of the almighty witch Circe and that she knew the art of necromancy. Helena introduced herself, took a seat and revealed her crippled hands with those last remaining fingers looking like a very uncomfortable future.

Lucia's color abandoned her cheeks, but realizing the extent of the blasphemy that was done, she couldn't avoid to offer her services to non-other than the inevitable future.

"I want to bring my boy back", Helena said.

"Then, you should do this", Lucia replied.

The ritual was difficult and unmanly sinful. Helena should make 40 black candles out of human fat. Then, she would put them in a circle and light them up. In the middle of the circle, she had to sacrifice a rooster and the moment this poot bird's last drop of blood would hit the ground, Helena's boy would return.

Lucia warned her that the boy's soul wouldn't follow his body, but at that point Helena wasn't listening anymore. She thanked the witch and left to gather all the human fat she needed.

First, she killed her parents. Then, she killed her husband. Her heart was suffering; she was honestly deeply grieving while she was removing her beloved ones’ skin to gather their fat. But believing her boy could be resurrected like Jesus, she felt that the bigger picture was more important than her slight inconvenience.

Later that night, she sacrificed the rooster and the moment her child appeared alive in front of her, Helena wouldn't even bother that the youngest of those three old sisters was staring at them.

Helena was happy. She did notice, of course, that her son wasn't sleeping and that all the animals around him would die, but she was a woman who believed in weird coincidences.

By the beginning of the week before Easter, there were now sheep left in the entire village. Also,by the beginning of the week before Easter Helena realized she was pregnant again. That was when her son tried to rip her belly open with his teeth, leaving his mother slightly bleeding, but still believing in the possibility weird coincidences could indeed happen. That was, also, when she heard a knock on the door. It was the youngest of the old sisters, but she now had three fingers, only three fingers on her hands.

"I came for the boy", the old lady said. And Helena froze out of fear.

The child looked at the old lady and the whole house began to smell like sepsis. Innocent birds started to fly against the window, leaving blood marks behind. Helena looked at the flowers in her once pretty garden, and they were all dead. The boy took a knife and curved the place it once had his heart, but it was now empty and smelled like a rotting corpse.

"You have been warned, haven't you, Helena", the old lady said. "You have been warned not to do it, for your son would be a human no more".

"No!", Helena screamed. "Not even Death could stop me, not even Death could take him away from me, no!". Her pain was almost visible, you could hear it, you could feel it but the old lady wouldn't bother to feel sorry for her.

"Death couldn't stop you, but I can. After all, I created Death" and by finishing her sentence, the boy was turned back into a decayed corpse. Helena was crashed. She was ready to give up and allow her natural sadness to finally absorb her, when something this old woman said.

"You will have a daughter, Helena. And this daughter will have a daughter. A daughter that will die, after she'll give birth to yet another daughter. You polluted your bloodline, my darling kid".

"I don't blame you for being sad. I blame your pain that would torture you, your sadness, your bitter soul. I blame the human beings who wouldn’t help you get better. But I also blame your poor judgement, because the dead should be respected and left in their peace "

"You will die, after you give birth to your daughter. I believe it's a very fitting punishment to this crime of yours. You have been a bad kid, my dear". And leaving my grandmother, Helena, alone the old woman left.

After some time, grandma gave birth to my mother. She died shortly after. My mother was raised by distant relatives, who knew about this curse, but they took her anyway. They were not good people, but they had a very strong sense of obligation.

29 years after Helena died, my mom gave birth to me. And two weeks ago, I gave birth to my daughter.

I don't even know how I got pregnant. All I know is that I spent one romantic night with a woman who had only three fingers. I always preferred women, to my mom's relief. She believed, as well as I did, that sleeping with women wouldn’t get me pregnant.

I still don't understand how this happened. But my daughter is the most beautiful girl on earth. Her eyes shine brighter than every star you could possibly imagine. Her sweet smile turns my heart into a home for butterflies and her laughter is the white noise of love. The day I hold her on my arms, I promised to stand by her forever and ever.

It is indeed a pity that I'm dying. Such a pity.