Never in my life did I think anyone in my town would cheer after someone died, let alone everyone. 

But that’s exactly what’s happening today. 

At eight in the morning, our elderly neighbour passed away; the latest victim of the curse on our town. Her children and husband had already been taken weeks before. 

I push my way through the cheering crowd, shouldering my way towards the centre of it to get closer to the stage where the Prophet stood, his arms raised and a huge smile on his face. His team of zealots stood behind him, wearing blank expressions as per usual. Thirty days ago, they predicted that the end of the curse would come when only half of us remained. 

I can’t shake the feeling that his ‘prediction’ was just some arbitrary guess. 

Why would his God take the lives of fifty people for no reason? It made no sense when he said it the first time, and unlike everyone else who grew to believe it as more and more people withered away, it makes no sense to me now. 

What did those people do to deserve death? What did my father do? He was an ordinary man, working an ordinary job, with an ordinary family. 

That’s what most of the dead were. 

Ordinary. 

The Prophet’s smile never wavers. It’s stuck on his face, plastered there for all eternity. I stare at him, and minutes pass before I realise that he’s not even looking at the crowd. He’s looking over everyone, not meeting their eyes like he’s afraid of them. 

What are you afraid of, Prophet? 

Haven’t you saved them? Delivered the word of your God and promised salvation? 

I listen more intently to the cheers around me. They begin to ring hollow in my ears; the joy and relief tainted with the distinct rot of fear and desperation. These people aren’t grateful. They’re not happy. 

They’re scared. Not of the curse, but of the chance that tomorrow, at eight in the morning, what tiny shreds of hope they have left might be ruthlessly torn from them. 

That’s why you’re afraid, isn’t it, Prophet? 

You know that the day has come. The day of your reckoning, when the hope that everyone pinned onto you pulls you into the abyss once they find out you’re a fraud. 

Was it worth it? 

Was it worth the month of respect, of worship, of control? 

I hope that come tomorrow, the one who dies isn’t you. 

I want you to feel the pain of forty-eight souls, the agony of them all screaming out that they trusted you, and that you betrayed them. 

Then, once so few people are left that nobody remembers how you screwed us all over and you’re finally left to live in peace? 

I hope that’s the day you die.