The man with the mysterious illness and the woman with the nomadic blood met in the humming noise of the factory. Their daughter poisoned the wontons with too much thirteen-spice powder. Her slammed door was filled with disappointment of a failed academic career.

The violent and unwitting man held the hands of the daughter of a wealthy family who had a mistake in her belly. Their only surviving son was a young boy who could drown himself in the world of studies. When he arrived in the city, the limelight blinded his eyes.

And I was the fruit of the poisonous tree. The pariah.

I arrived in my black robe and with the blade with the dark handle. When I limped into the hallway, hatred filled my prone-to-seizure brain.

Or I stepped onto the stage with my foreign features. The familiar music still haunted my every being. A domestic life with an ordinary woman suited me better than fame and fortune.

Or I was the ambidextrous Gokturk princess who became a lesbian before it was cool. The gold fringes and red silk eclipsed that woman’s beauty and my despair.

I was cursed with an illness too. An ancient illness that plagued the land of pharaohs, Khans, Kings, and Shahs. The dark shamans begged for its arrival. They did a deal with Erlik.

The antidote saved me. Sir William Osler blessed the land with modern medicine. So I was me, finally. Not my obsession.

Before the bloodline ended, at least I could say that I traded the rat race for a moment of happiness. The cursed sadness became my source of strength.

Life could’ve been this easy? I wondered. Could I have saved them all? The non-existent ancestral shrine was full of bloodshed. Open your mouths. I said. Here comes the dopamine.

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