I was born with a crow's mouth. Whatever unlucky thing I said was bound to come true.
My family treated me like a bringer of bad luck and avoided me at all costs.
Once, I casually said, “Grandpa, be careful when you walk.”
That very day, he fell down the stairs and died.
Once, I worriedly warned, “Dad, it's not safe for you to drive today.”
A few hours later, news of a car crash came. Mom collapsed when she heard, and she died too.
My brothers were convinced my words had cursed them to death, and they hated me to the core.
They even sent me to a psychiatric hospital to be “fixed,” and only brought me home after I stopped speaking altogether.
On my eighteenth birthday, I sensed that my own death was near, and spoke for the first time.
I wanted to ask them to join me for one last dinner.
But all I heard on the other end of the phone was a busy signal. They were busy celebrating their little sister's dog's birthday.
