Day 395

The old antiques fair as back in town, you told your friend.
It has always been there, they replied, it never leaves.
You know this to be a fact and yet you remember playing tennis on those fields
not three days ago with this friend which now seems so dreamlike, too dreamlike.

You have been to the fair before and found yourself the owner of a stuffed deer's head.
Sometimes its mouth is open, sometimes its eyes blink rapidly and it tilts its head.
Its a real conversation starter, if you like your conversations to start with "I swear that
thing just moved" and "How long has its mouth been open for" and "Feed me meat".

The antiques fair this year promises to be bigger, cheaper and guarantees you a bargain.
Your feet head towards it on opening day before you can quite comprehend it.
The attendants never charge you in money they prefer to take an old item of yours, this
year's item just so happens to be a jewellery box disguised as a painting of Emilé Zola.

They graciously accept your offering as they always do.
The field formerly empty (yet never not hosting this strange event) is now crammed full.
Tents, people, dogs and other miscellaneous small animals all roam around as if they were
born to walk among the tents, cars and hastily assembled shacks each holding treasure-trash.

Your ever-wandering feet find you heading to some kind of Khasakstani yurt selling glass.
Each bottle is a unique hue that your eyes struggle to comprehend, each whispers intently.
Glancing at them for too long makes your eyes hurt and the seller uses this to his advantage,
pressing a bottle the size and shape of a lamp into your hand.

These whispers speak kindest of you, he says in a voice like grease, this is what you need.
You don't know if you need it but your hands press two pound coins into his hands.
He isn't satisfied with this and so you feel compelled to offer him a lock of your hair also
which he gladly accepts, twisting it into the shape of a hand and placing it inside another bottle.

The bottle is now situated in your pocket where it radiates an air of complacence.
It knew you would buy it before you had even been born.
At least it whispered kind things about you though its every other word was an array of rich
and colourful curses at everyone surrounding you, some of which came true immediately.

It wished that your cousin would burn and before you could hush it she began screeching.
The hairspray can she was examining had begun leaking flames instead of spray.
Your feet formerly keen to roam were now rooted to the spot as those around her stepped back
and waited for her life to end as her body gradually crumpled like wet tissues.

They could see it was a curse, everyone could see it was a curse.
So far they didn't suspect you, though leniency was often granted for antique purchases.
Some just had a mind of their own, both literal and figurative, and as such the mayor had ruled
that the items themselves would be taken away, the owners were equally the victims.

Your bottle laughed with glee as she went, you could almost feel it scanning for another one.
It tried to choose a small child from a few streets over (Anya was it, or Katya?).
Throwing it to the ground was your only option, you had to for her sake but would the law be
in your favour - unlicensed destruction of antiques was punishable.

They never specified the punishment but it was still enough to put anyone off.
Almost anyone at least as the bottle began to mutter dark promises of death and eternal torment.
It was out of your hand and soaring away from you and towards the girl, landing on her arm and
shattering upon contact, blistering her skin in a matter of seconds.

Her death took weeks according to your aunt.
The bottle had been right after all, perhaps this was inevitable.
Deaths were fairly common for the antiques fair, not a year went by without at least a dozen or
so bodies being found, created or reanimated - such was the fair.