99 Days Left

I am writing this in hopes that no one else will suffer the same terrible fate that I will. I'm lucky that I even get to see my eighteenth birthday, not that I'll be doing too much celebrating now, nonetheless.
I'm going to try to paint a picture for you all, but I still have yet to make peace with this and I begin to hyperventilate every time I start to write.
In retrospect, it's almost comical how much I worshipped death before all of this. Craved it, in fact. Somehow though, I was always too much of a wuss to do anything about it, maybe because the universe always had other plans for me. I don't know. It's all so strange to think about now.
Growing up, I was a pretty ordinary child. I had many friends, I had the most creative imagination... The one difference from myself and all the other kids? My family were all practicing witches. It never embarrassed me, or freaked me out. The opposite, really. It fascinated me and I was so eager to grow a little bit bigger and start practicing the art myself. And around thirteen, I really began to delve into it. I described myself a "garden witch", nothing ominous or scary. I enjoyed charging my crystals and playing with sage and rosemary.
To be raised around these types of things, to eventually be brought to your aunt's coven, you really judge not. I was incredibly open minded, and got along with many Luciferians, dark witches, etc. I never questioned their beliefs or practices. They were some of the nicest people I'd ever been acquainted with. My mother is a white witch; a healer. I never feared my mother, I looked up to her lots, like many daughters do. Her bedroom was one of my favorite places to go when she wasn't occupying it. She had a dresser topped with so many spell books and this breathtaking alter. When she was away on trips, I would go in there a lot to calm myself when I felt anxious. This last time though, something was different.
Above her dresser, usally hung a white and grey tapestry with phases of the moon. Yesterday? Yesterday it was gone, replaced by a knife in a glass case. I was so curious, so confused. "Why is this knife so special? Why must it be in a GLASS case?" I asked myself. I admired it for what felt like an eternity, staring at it gave me an almost drunk feeling. I finally was able to break my attention away from the object long enough to pull my phone out of my pocket and dial my mom's number.
"Hello?" Her voice sang through the speaker.
"Uhhh, what's with the rusty knife in the little glass jail?" I questioned, trying to make my words sound as normal as possible, because this... thing... filled me with dread.
"Ninety...nine...days..." A whisper filled my ear of which sounded nothing like my mother. It was much older, much more menacing. It made my heart sink instantly, and I couldn't understand why.
"Mom? Are you there?" My voice was shaking by this point.
"Hon. Can't hear you." Her end of the phone call was being butchered up severely, so I walked around the room, a multiple of "HELLO? MOM?"s falling from my lips, then finally the call dropped completely. I tried calling her back as fast as I could, my signal had other plans. I couldn't get a call out, every single one was dropped. I decided to dwindle it all down into being irrational and overreacting to spare my sanity for the night. Maybe it was an heirloom I didn't know about. Maybe the voice I heard was another call bleeding over. Can that even happen? It didn't matter. I left her room.
It seemed like my cell had no signal anywhere in the house, so I figured the towers were down or something. I thought about walking over to a friend's house, but the night was unusually dark. Like pitch black. The only street light we had flickered slower and slower. It was time to just call it a lazy night. I turned on netflix and settled into the couch. I guess I'd fallen asleep eventually because I was woken up by someone coming through the backdoor. I swear I'd locked every door and checked twice over before night time even approached. What did it even matter now? My blood ran cold, there were absolutely no weapons in the house besides some butter and steak knives. The problem? The backdoor was in the kitchen. I had no chance. I didn't even know if this person was armed yet, I suppose it must be some primal instinct to immediately want to protect yourself. I tried to be as quiet as possible, crawl off the couch and lock myself away. In habit, I ran to my mother's room but it felt like I truly wasn't even thinking for myself. Still, I ran straight into the room, locking the wooden door behind me. I pinched my eyes shut as the intruder called out.
"Ali...Sweet girl, where are you?" Chills ran down my spine. The voice sounded much like my father's, however, my father is dead. Was this some type of sick joke? Why me?
"Open the door, Ali." The man called out again, causing me to jump a good few inches forward. He was so close, I could hear the doorknob being played with behind me along with a few harsh knocks.
In front of me was the case. That god forsaken case. Looking at the knife, it didn't make me feel queasy this time, it was like I had found a solace. My feet moved without me deciding where they went, they just simply went. My elbow so easily connected with the glass that had been keeping me from it. I picked up and gripped it tightly in my right hand, feeling it up with my left. It felt like it was freshly sharpened. I swear, with the age on it and the box, it should've been at least a little dull, right? My thoughts clouded over pretty fast, all I wanted to do was use it. I prayed that the intruder would come crashing into the room, right into the knife. I had to use it. I longed to use it.
Finally, this man broke down the door and headed straight for me. I turned around quickly, what I can only imagine to be a smirk on my face as I ran to plunge the silver piece into his skin. He held out his hand toward my face and without a second thought, I pushed the blade through flesh and bones. It felt wonderful, I had power. And that feeling stayed for about four seconds. Suddenly, everything was clear.
My ears finally registered the scream of pain coming from the person in front of me. I let loose of the knife, falling to my knees in tears.
"Fuck, Ali. What the fuck?!" My aunt cried out, I was silent for a few moments before taking my phone out again. Of course, there was signal now.
I dialed 911 and when they showed up, my aunt took the blame. I tried to explain what happened to her to the best of my abilities. I then asked her why she even showed up, apparently my mother called her and informed her to check on me after our call got dropped and she couldn't reach me. She broke the door down afraid I had attempted something stupid. I apologized over and over, guilt was and is eating me alive, but she tried to reason that it could've been much worse and that the object was obviously cursed. We both figured my mother must've picked it up at a yard sale or something, knowing she had a thing for vintage pieces. I wish I could've been that clear headed and not ever had been so curious.
Not long after my aunt was all bandaged up, I got the worst headache of my life and a familiar voice flooded me. "Ninety...nine...days...to...live." The words were so quiet and drug out that I could barely make them out, but I made them out enough.
I haven't told my aunt yet, and neither of us can get ahold of my mom, not that I would inform her anyway. I don't know if I ever will. They'll kill themselves trying to find a way to reverse it, and what if there is no way? It would devastate them. I don't know what to do. Do I go back to school acting completely normal? If I could take back every time I'd ever wished death upon myself, I would. But I guess that's the point. Some fucked up metaphor of taking life for granted.
Please, just stay away from knives in glass cases.
Category:Bad Creepypasta
Category:DIALOGUE!
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