My sister long ago brought home a pearl pendant forged in her workshop, and hung it up on the hook above our fireplace. I found it glinted quite unpleasantly in the firelight, and so I reached over to turn it to its backside, less affected by indents. It was much smoother and lined with a metallic ridge, and in its reflection was caught a dark figure. It seemed to cower in the hallway.
Behind me was as empty as it was silent. Yet from the pendant one could almost hear wet, asthmatic coughs. With every sob the figure seemed to recede further in on itself. I was unsure of what I should have done. So I counted a beat, and, when the noises continued, carefully lifted the pendant off of the hook. This movement seemed to rouse the creature: its face was now turned to me.
Henceforth I wore the pendant. It cried and jingled. The cross on my chest was its companion. My sister demanded that I give it back; but I counted to five thrice and kept tapping on the dinner table, until the noise became lesser noticed by my mind than it would a heartbeat. When I showered and the jewel was clouded by steam, the creature shifted, if only by a inch, moving quietly from its corner and further down the corridor, wailing just the same.
This creature comes in many forms, but still the proper meaning of the word is missing from the dictionary. My mother says it is a beast, its bones protruding, a blade-sharp tongue whispering man's many griefs. It feeds beauties to one's greed, it coughs death and vile phlegm both, but stays the healthy in a blood-filled sea of plague. And still all of this is incorrect.
It is a mistake to accord misfortune to other factors. Yet I know that he is something more. I counted seven times the twelve eyelashes atop my palm, my mother says 'licho wie', - the licho only knows, a thing she does not want to tell, nineteen drops ceded to the kitchen sink, I count them fifteen times by twelve, my ears ring the rhythm of the gifts he brings me and so I know he is something gracing, something beautiful.
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