Leaning back in my chair, I rubbed my temples. The headache was settling in, deep and pulsing, and exhaustion threatened to overtake me. My mother’s gaze sharpened instantly; it was impossible to hide anything from her.
“Are you suffering from headaches again?” she asked.
I forced a smile, trying to ease her anxiety.
“It will be all right tomorrow, mother, don’t worry. I just need to sleep.”
She didn’t seem convinced, her brow furrowing, but she didn’t press me further. I rose from the table to clear my bowl. As I turned to head upstairs, she called softly after me.
“You are allowed to use the heka on yourself, you know? If you are careful, there’s nothing wrong with finding some relief from your pain.”
I paused, the words striking a chord I’d spent most of my life avoiding.
My heka, as it was called, had always been a mystery to me, something I’d learned to suppress rather than understand.The idea of using it on myself to ease this constant pain terrified me. But then again, so much of my life was about hiding, suppressing, pretending. Hekas weren’t unheard of. Once, they had been seen as a divine gift, bestowed upon humans by the Fates themselves. There were stories of those who could heal, summon rain, or speak with the dead. But over time, people had twisted their gifts for greed and power, and the Fates withdrew their favor. Those born with a heka were now more a curse than a blessing, hunted or shunned for the power they carried.
As a child I had noticed how sometimes I would write little stories that seemed to come true outside my window. When I turned seven, I wrote a wish list for my birthday and sure enough, the presents appeared in the living room the next morning. My parents’ reaction was what had scared me the most. My mother’s face had turned ashen, as if someone had drained the life out of her. Without uttering a word, she had scooped me up in her arms and taken me to my room. I remembered my dad closing the curtains and locking the doors and windows, but everything after that was a blur. I didn’t know much, but I knew that the heka was as much a gift as it was a curse. Using it for my own purposes was a great risk, like taking a strong drug and hoping not to get addicted. A lesson I had learned and paid for dearly later in life.
Pushing these thoughts away, I sent a kiss flying to my mother and smiled at her.
“Thank you for saying that, but I will be fine tomorrow. Otherwise, I will ask Dr. Marris for help, I promise. Good night!”
I could hear my mother huffing.
“Dr. Marris, the old fool wouldn’t know the difference between a tooth and a stomachache.”
* * *
I tried to sleep, but the pain in my head only worsened with every passing minute, like a relentless, pulsing vise tightened around my skull. My hands were burning, though I couldn’t see any reason for it. The heat crawled up my arms, spreading like fire through my veins, igniting my shoulders and making it nearly impossible to get comfortable. No matter how I shifted, the pain only grew sharper, more insistent. Hours passed in restless turns before I finally sat up, gasping for air.
I barely made it to the bathroom before my stomach heaved. The contents of my belly surged up and spilled into the toilet, sharp and bitter, leaving a sour taste in my mouth. My headache was blinding, pulling at the edges of my vision, and my stomach churned with nausea.
My fingers started tapping against the toilet bowl in a steady rhythm.
Tap, tap, tap, tap.
If the rhyme ended on “remember,” the Fates allowed me to use my heka on myself. “Betray” meant enduring the pain.
Red for the roses, white for the veil,
one to remember, one to betray.
Thank the Fates—remember.
I crawled back to my bed, my limbs heavy and uncooperative, reaching for the pen and paper on my nightstand.
Just this once.
One breath. One act. One choice.
Do good. Stay clean. Hold steady.
My hands shook as I wrote the words, the pen slipping in my grasp:
“Fates, I call upon your age-old wisdom.
Ease the pain from my body,
and let me awaken well-rested in the morning.
