The Words From My Mouth Are Cursed Novels & Stories

My mouth fell open in shock, and I stuttered, “What the actual...fuck you, you bloody psycho...” “Careful,” he cut me off smoothly, his voice darker now, his eyes glowing red as fire as he lowered his mouth toward my throat, “the more you curse, the more I want to mark you. And once I mark you… you’ll never escape me.” “You stupid...don’t you...”

It was already here, moving through us, and jumbling our lives up. I broke the kiss and placed my forehead against hers again. “Then the curse has already won,” I whispered. As soon as the words left my mouth, I realized they weren’t just words. They were the truth.

POV: Mina I don’t know where I am. I don’t know who I am. There are voices, light, shadows whispering in a language I once knew—but can no longer understand. “You are a curse.” “You were born from a traitor’s blood.” “Everything would be better if you disappeared.”

he mused, a fresh smirk tugging at his mouth, “I’ve never once heard you drop a goddamn swear word.” I kept my mouth shut. The realization clearly amused him way more than it had any right to. He pulled on his cigarette, his eyes locked on mine as he waited. “Why?” he pressed after a while, the corner of his mouth curling higher. “Scared you’ll get put in timeout for saying bad words?” Heat crept into my cheeks. “What? No.” “Then say it.” “I do say curse words,” I muttered, a little too quickly. “I say ‘hell.’ That’s a curse word.”

the voice crooned, “where your heart stops. Where your magic buckles. Where the curse drinks, you dry and reset the board.” Images flashed—my first fall, the cold, the nothing. Then, waking up in a narrow bed three years earlier, lungs heaving, marks burning. Used. Reset. Recycled. “Enough,” I said. The word didn’t come out in a whisper this time. It came out like a *decision*. I had been calling it the curse for so long that the name had become a leash. But the thing burning in my veins—the thing the witches had tried to collar and weaponize - the thing the Goddess had tugged on like a fishing line—had never truly been *theirs*

I know its shape. What is behind my son's eyes tonight is older than the curse. It is the curse, in its settled, comfortable, well-fed form, the version of it that has found its host and is no longer visiting, and that distinction matters in ways I do not have time to explain to anyone who hasn't spent twenty-three years studying what I built on that October night. I lean over the candle. I speak the words my grandmother taught me, the old ones, the ones in the language her grandmother brought from Haiti two hundred years ago, the ones that require nothing but breath and intent and the particular kind of grief that comes from loving something you broke.

Lenard spoke like an old wise man, and his words clearly implied one thing—he thinks I’m not cursed. I’m not cursed?? Carving my own path?? It’s a boatload of horse waste! I was cursed. I was nothing but a harbinger of doom and suffering. Lenard was just an old man. A foolish one. But tonight? All I wanted was to carve one path for myself. I wanted to look pretty. **********

She never found a single fault to give us away. I watched her slowly pace with the dagger around the room, frustration etched on her forehead like a carved sculpture. She stopped. “I gave him my body, saved his ass a lot of times, but instead—” Her eyes met mine, fury running through those calm, powerful irises. “Instead, he chose you—his cursed little slut.” Cursed. That word was new to my ears. I was weak, slow, and a whore—but cursed was novel to me, especially coming from a witch.

I shook violently in my restraints, the silence of the van returning as the heavy engine continued to hum beneath us. *I think I am cursed,* I whispered silently to myself, the dark, heavy thought piercing deep into my soul. *Everything I have ever done in this miserable life has brought nothing but absolute calamity and destruction to the people who dare to get close to me. I think I am just the most unlucky, wretched person in the entire world.*

For me, waking up was the nightmare. I didn’t understand what or the weight of what was happening then. Only that it hurt, that I couldn’t breathe properly. The air itself seemed poisoned, thick with the stench of alcohol that rolled off him in waves, sharp and acrid, burning my nose and throat. His voice came low, slurred, heavy with that smell, each word dripping with venom. Even before I could fully understand the meaning, I knew what it carried: a curse. His words told me I would never be wanted, never be loved. That I was to be silent, to bury everything happening inside me, to never speak of it to anyone.