the Mark of Cain

My whole life has been lived from one miserable event and milestone to the next. My dad left us when I was 2 and came back when I was 7, my little sister got cancer when she was 4 and I was 6, and died just before her 8th birthday. My older brother got caught up by drugs when I was 11 and almost committed suicide on my 13th birthday. Ma became an alcoholic, my dad left again, and I haven't heard from my brother in six months. Everything bad seems to happen to those around me. My best friend in kindergarten got hit by a car and spent two weeks in a coma. I just thought that was life, that God enjoyed taking a little of my happiness each year until my resevoir of joy was completely run dry.
What I didn't know was that I'm a walking curse. No one can get close to me and be safe. Sure I'm perfectly fine and physically untouched,  but the emotional weight is crushing. I've become an unemotional puppet, but maybe that's for the best so no one wants to get too close to me and therefore won't get hurt.
I'm the product of a sin, of an ancient curse that's been twisted and distorted over time. No I wasn't born out of wedlock or through an adulterous relationship, but rather I'm the lucky One of my generation.
Everyone knows the story of Cain and Abel, no matter what your religion is. Cain killed Abel and therefore was marked, doomed to wander yet protected from people harming him. What people don't know is that when he died, the Mark passed down to one of his descendants. Over the years, people tried to wield the Mark like some sort of power, and it became polluted and violent in response. Now, instead of saving the wearer from harm, it forces the person to wander by harming everyone around them.
A small little blemish in the pupil of my left eye sets me apart from the rest of society, like a little star formed from the black of my pupil that bleeds over into the blues of my iris.
 People wonder about me, trust me, I hear it plenty. How many 17 year old girls have no friends and never had a boyfriend? They calm themselves by blaming my history and familial past, but even then they're unsettled by me even if they don't know why.
Oh boy have I done my research on this, trust me, but my findings deter me more. Each and every bearer of the Mark had died or committed suicide before their 25th birthday. the last was a little boy who gave up and took his life at 15. May 13, 1996, consequently being the day of my birth.
What do I do about it? Nothing. That's part of the reason the Mark has grown so grotesque. People try to get rid of it or use it for their own devices, but they should know better than to try and harness or eradicate the power of God.
What are we good for? that's the part I've yet to figure out. What good is a bunch of kids who can't make friends, can't fall in love, and are usually dead by 25? Maybe one day someone out there will figure this out, maybe they can finally get rid of it. But for now I'm ridding myself of it.
The blade against my wrist is warm from being in my hand so long. The sharp edge pushes up against my skin, moving up and down slightly with each beat of my pulse. I could pass it on. Simple as that. Leave some unlucky little baby to deal with the nightmare that comes from this life. Would it be cruel for me to do that? But isn't it just as cruel to walk around inadvertently ruining the lives of those around me should I live?
All the notes of those before me said the same thing: The Mark was too much. Which scares me, because according to everything I read, the people went insane before ending themselves. I'm not insane, at least i don't think I am. How much longer till i lose it completely? Should I end it before then? Or will it hurt less if I'm not all mentally there?
A voluntary flick of my wrist decides that answer. My mom probably won't even care to read a note I leave, but I folded up a paper on the counter earlier anyway. It isn't a typical note, no, I'm not a typical girl so why would i do that? It's an apology. Maybe when I'm gone it'll reverse the affects of my life. Maybe it'll take the blemish where I existed and eradicate it. Maybe my brother will come home, maybe my dad will come back and pull my mom up from the bottom of the bottle. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Too many variables. Why won't the blood stop? God my head hurts. Everything hurts. Make it stop. Why doesn't the pain ever stop?

March 22, 2013 - Rex Hospital - Jane Lawrence journal entry
    It's a boy. Blond, full lips, chubby arms, and a face like his daddy. And his eyes, oh they're the most beautiful thing i've ever seen. Blue, and the right one has the most peculiar little blemish on it. Like a star jutting out from his pupil. Nobody can explain it, but I can feel that he's special somehow.