The Cursed Child
The Cursed Child
There was a child born cursed. She came into this world with black hair—the unclean color decreed by scripture—and golden eyes, the symbol of demons.
Her mother died giving birth to her. And her father, crushed by despair after losing his wife, took his own life, leaving behind a note begging relatives to care for the child.
That was the story of the child's first year.
The day she was supposed to spend her very first birthday.
When she was taken in by her relatives, nothing changed. They were a devout family who followed the doctrines of the Holy Kingdom. They looked coldly upon a child born under the sign of demons—a child who, before she was even a year old, had killed both her parents.
They did not give her a name.
Unclean thing. Reincarnation of a demon. Cursed child. They called her by insults no child should ever hear.
The only reason they let her live instead of starving her to death was a single verse of scripture. The very scripture that had destroyed her life also, ironically, kept her alive.
That family did not celebrate her first steps. Nor her first words, nor the day she learned to control her body. Instead of praise, she received only abuse.
She passed through infancy without ever knowing love or happiness. Now she was five, a toddler, yet her life remained dark. The adults' neglect and abuse never stopped—and soon, even their children began to torment her.
There wasn't a single day without fresh bruises. Her hair was always tangled. She lived like a beggar, unable to wash the dried blood crusted on her body. She simply survived, never dying.
And yet, the child shed no tears of sorrow. She had never tasted happiness, so she had no measure for its opposite. She could feel no sadness, and so no tears came.
Regrettably, she had never even learned emotion. Speaking and reading were things she barely managed to pick up on her own. She stammered and stumbled over every word—and that, too, became a reason for ridicule and abuse. But it didn't matter.
She had already resigned herself. This was her life. This was the existence she had been given, and dying quickly was the only right answer. By the age of six, the cursed child had already decided her future with a pessimism far beyond her years.
That was when she was heading toward death, locked alone in her room.
The very curse that had led the child to ruin became her salvation.
Word arrived that the relatives—who had locked her inside and gone out—had all died when their carriage fell from a cliff. Because they were a devout family, Church believers dispatched after the accident took the child left behind and brought her to an orphanage in the Holy Kingdom.
Whispers followed her. An unclean child. The cause of the curse. The symbol of demons. Believers openly slandered her appearance, which did not match the teachings.
But the child was not especially sad.
She had always heard such words. They were familiar.
And so time passed, and the child arrived in the Holy Kingdom.
For a child like her, the orphanage director asked questions to fill out the paperwork.
"...How old are you?"
At that question, the child tried to remember how many calendars had piled up in her room. There were eight, so her age would be seven—subtract one for that place. Without speaking, she simply raised seven fingers.
"...Can you not speak?"
She shook her head. But she didn't want to open her mouth. If she spoke, she would be slapped for insolence or have her hair pulled. Adults had always treated her that way. So she kept her mouth shut.
The director filled out the forms. Not knowing her name, they simply wrote 'A' and sent her off. Led by an unfamiliar adult, the child went to the orphanage.
She was not a pleasant sight. Cheeks sunken from hunger. Ugly bruises and scars across her body. And eyes far too dark for a child so young.
Catching her reflection in a passing mirror, the child thought that here too, everyone would avoid her.
When she arrived, a teacher stood before the children and introduced the newcomer. They urged her to say her name, but the child refused. She didn't know how to form relationships either. Clinging to the belief that she would live alone and die alone, she said nothing and retreated to a corner.
It was how she had always lived. Crouched in a corner—a familiar place—was deeply comfortable. At least no fists came at her there. She was just about to accept this quiet, painless existence when—
"What's your name?"
One child approached. She was incredibly bright and beautiful. Unlike herself—a cursed child born with ugly markings—this girl seemed like a young angel. She extended her hand and asked for a name.
"......"
She didn't want to answer.
No, to begin with, she didn't know the answer.
She didn't even fully understand what a name was.
So she stayed silent and just stared at that face.
She was an angel. Long, flowing golden hair and silver eyes that shone like the moon.
"...My name is Rosaria."
That was her first meeting with Rosaria.
"...So, can I ask your name now?"
Rosaria kept asking for her name.
The child kept thinking. She had never been treated like this before. This unfamiliar situation was not comfortable.
"...What is a name?"
She said it as clearly as she could, without stammering.
For the first time, she spoke without being in pain.
"It's what people say when they call you."
The child pondered that answer. She thought as hard as she could about what she had been called the most.
"...People around me called me a cursed child. That's my name."
She told Rosaria the words she had heard most often.
"...That's not a name. So, you don't have a name."
If she said so, then it must be true. She wasn't quite sure what it meant to not have a name, but for now, she nodded.
"...Then, may I give you one? Right now?"
It didn't matter much. She didn't know if it was important or necessary. She figured Rosaria could do as she liked, so she nodded.
"Hmm... Ah! Canaria. How about Canaria?"
In that single moment, the girl went from being a cursed child to Canaria.
Though Canaria never asked why she chose that name, Rosaria kindly explained it anyway.
"Your eyes shine with golden light, and they're so pretty. So I named you Canaria—it's a lovely yellow, just like the bird I adore. If you don't like it, please tell me. I'll try hard to think of another wonderful name."
Strangely, her heart fluttered at those words. She had never been called pretty before. She understood the word, of course—she knew where and toward whom it was used. But she had never been its subject.
Canaria was unfamiliar with this emotion, the very first of her life.
"...No. I like Canaria too."
Once again, she spoke as clearly as she could, careful not to stammer or slur.
At the same time, her chest grew warm. A sensation like a bright flame blooming inside her. For some reason, the heat rose all the way to her cheeks. Her body, starting to flush, felt strange.
"I'm so glad you like it."
Rosaria answered, smiling brightly. The more Canaria saw that smile, the faster her heart beat.
"Then, I'll show you around, Canaria."
Rosaria held out her hand so Canaria could take it and stand. It was small and soft, and neatly kept. Canaria looked down at her own hand—roughly torn nails, open wounds, dried scabs and grime caked into the skin.
"...I can get up by myself."
She couldn't bring herself to take that hand. As always, she pushed herself up from the floor alone.
"Is it because your hands are dirty?"
Rosaria had read her mind.
"...No."
Embarrassed, she lied. And then, on instinct, she flinched and raised her arm to shield her face—expecting a fist for the sin of lying.
"Canaria is surprisingly shy."
Rosaria gently stroked her head instead. Even though she had lied, no one hit her. Canaria struggled to accept that.
"If it gets dirty, we can just wash up together. If it bothers you that much, let's go wash right now. There won't be anyone there yet."
Rosaria didn't mind at all, even when her own hands got dirty. She grabbed Canaria's hand just like that—and started running, pulling Canaria toward the bath.
Rosaria's hand was very warm.
And Canaria's face grew even hotter.
*
A bathhouse filled with warm water. Steam rose softly like fog. But Canaria couldn't just step into the bath right away.
"...I can do it myself."
Rosaria was washing her.
"Canaria, you're really bad at lying."
As soon as Canaria, not knowing how to use soap, brought it toward her mouth, Rosaria panicked and snatched it away. Then, afraid Canaria might cause another accident, she insisted on washing her herself.
"...Don't."
Canaria hated how her cheeks kept burning. This emotion called embarrassment—something she was feeling for the first time in her life—was deeply distressing. But Rosaria couldn't just leave Canaria alone when she might swallow the soap again.
"No. I'm going to wash you very, very clean, so keep your eyes closed."
Canaria obeyed and closed her eyes. But that only made her focus sharpen, and her embarrassment seemed to double. Rosaria kept washing Canaria, and kept talking to her.
"...Did it hurt, Canaria?"
She remembered how Canaria had groaned the moment the warm water touched her skin. Once the clothes were off, the bruises and the slightly twisted shape of the bones became even clearer. There were caked scabs of blood too, and wounds that had burst open again and again before they could heal.
No matter how she looked at it, Canaria's body was not normal.
"...It hurt."
It hurt terribly. That was only natural. Even if she didn't understand emotion, she understood pain. The days she had spent suffering were very, very long. Probably from the very moment she became aware of her own existence.
"...Your heart must have hurt a lot, too."
No matter how much Rosaria rinsed her hair, dirty water kept pouring out. Even blood that had long since dried and turned black came out endlessly. Canaria's hair was so damaged it broke off with the gentlest touch.
"...What does it mean for your heart to hurt?"
She had lived without ever knowing what that meant. Ever since she could remember, she had never cried except from physical pain. Since she didn't know what the heart was, she couldn't understand its ache.
"...It means something deep inside your chest hurts."
Canaria understood that literally.
"You mean the heart? That hurt, too."
Because there was a time she had been kicked very hard in the chest. Along with her ribs, something inside had hurt so badly she thought she might die. That was probably the first and only time she received healing through holy power.
"...Once you're all clean, get treatment first."
Rosaria, her chest aching for Canaria—whose body and heart were both broken—urged her to seek healing.
"...Will you do it for me, Rosaria?"
Canaria turned her body around and opened her eyes, looking straight at Rosaria. Soap bubbles stung her eyes, but she didn't blink even once. With suds streaming down her face like tears, Canaria stared at Rosaria with unfocused eyes.
"...I can't do it right now. But I'll treat you later."
So saying, Rosaria held out her pinky finger.
"...I promise."
But Canaria didn't know what that meant. She just stared blankly at Rosaria's finger, turning her head this way and that. As soon as Rosaria saw Canaria's confusion, she understood.
"This is how you make a promise, Canaria."
She took Canaria's hand and linked their pinky fingers together.
"...What's a promise?"
Of course, having learned nothing, Canaria knew nothing of such things either. But Rosaria didn't grow frustrated; she simply stroked Canaria's head and explained it in a way she could understand.
"...A promise is a word you have to keep, no matter what."
That was the first promise between Canaria and Rosaria.