13
447words
That night, Ryan and Kyle sat under a tree, a few beers on the stone table between them.
In the center of the table sat a dirt-stained wooden box.
The box buried during the ritual.
That was why Kyle and Ryan were pulled home early that day.
Business failing again, Ryan’s father tried "folk magic."
A "professor" claimed an ancient ritual could banish bad luck, summon good.
More participants meant better results.
In the first seven loops, Ryan was absent. Only Ryan’s dad, Kyle, and Kyle’s mom were there.
The ritual’s core: Each person writes their worst misfortune on paper.
Seal the notes in the box, bury it under the oak tree.
Take the misfortune away forever.
Those seven times, on the three folded notes inside…
The same name was written:
[Ryan Miller]
Now, Kyle picked up a beer.
He nudged his chin at the box. "Seriously, dude. You sure you wanna open that?"
Kyle’s gaze drifted. "Last few times… you saw those notes with your name… then…"
"You shattered."
"You blamed yourself for everyone’s crap. Thought you were cursed. That anyone near you got screwed. That as long as you breathed, bad luck followed."
"So, every time you saw that box… you ran off to die."
Ryan didn’t answer immediately.
His fingers brushed the dirt off the lid. Slow. Calm.
"Yeah. It’s okay. I’m not scared anymore."
Ryan opened the box.
This time, he’d been part of the ritual. Four notes lay inside.
Ryan picked one up. Unfolded it slowly.
[Superstitious BS is BS]
Beside the words, a crude middle finger was drawn.
Ryan looked up at Kyle, who was trying not to laugh.
The smile held challenge, mockery… and relief.
They locked eyes. Ryan smiled too.
Ryan didn’t open the others. Pulled out a lighter.
Click. Fwoosh.A small orange flame danced.
The paper curled, blackened, dissolved into smoke.
Vanishing into the thick summer air.
"Hell yeah. Cheers." Kyle raised his beer can. "To failed romance?"
Ryan raised his, gently clinking Kyle’s.
Ting.Clear. Bright.
"To chasing the girl."
"Screw that! I ain't toasting my rival!"
...
I slowly opened my eyes.
Pure white hospital ceiling.
"Baby! Baby's awake!"
"Quick! Get the doctor!"
My parents’ faces, tear-streaked yet radiant with joy, filled my vision.
They wept, laughed, babbled: My illness… had a cure.
"...A Dr. Amy... a young, brilliant doctor!"
"All over the news! TV! She cracked a world-class medical breakthrough… your disease!"
"She said she reviewed your case… said she'd treat you… free…"
"Baby, we have hope… real hope…"
Amy.
I pressed my trembling lips together, turned to the window.
The sun was out.
[The End]
