Personal purgatory

George's hand trembled as he grasped the doorknob, a sense of dread washing over him. His pockets were empty – no keys to be found. Had he lost them during his captivity at the mansion?

Gritting his teeth, he cautiously turned the knob, half-expecting it to resist. To his surprise, the door swung open effortlessly. He must have forgotten to lock it in his rush for medicine the other day.

As he widened the door, a foul, noxious odor immediately assaulted his senses.

"What the hell?" he muttered, recoiling from the overpowering stench that seemed to permeate every inch of his house. "Did a rat die in here?"

Pinching his nose in a futile attempt to block out the rancid odor, George ventured further inside. The scene that greeted him was one of utter squalor – rotting food littered the countertops, empty takeout containers and discarded bottles strewn haphazardly across every available surface.

"Damn it," he growled, shaking his head in disgust. "How did this place turn into such a pit?"

George's gaze swept over the chaos, a pang of shame lancing through him as he realized just how far he had allowed himself to sink. What had once been a simple, if cluttered, living space now resembled a landfill more than a home.

"Get a grip," he chastised himself, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "This is no way for a man to live."

Sinking into the depths of his battered recliner, George surveyed the wreckage with a weary resignation. A cloud of dust billowed up from the ratty upholstery, causing him to cough and wave a hand in front of his face.

"What's the point in cleaning this mess?" he muttered bitterly. "It's not like I have anyone left to impress. She's gone,"

The memories came unbidden – his wife's gentle smile, her insistence on maintaining a tidy home as a sanctuary for the mind and soul. A lump formed in George's throat as he pushed those thoughts aside, his jaw clenching with renewed determination.

"Enough wallowing," he growled, rising to his feet with a surge of adrenaline. "Let's clean this up. If not for anyone, for Carmen,"

With purposeful strides, he made his way towards the kitchen, his gaze sweeping over the squalid countertops and overflowing sink. Somewhere amidst this chaos, he knew, there had to be something edible – some scrap of sustenance to fuel his newfound resolve.

Ripping open cabinets and rifling through drawers, George let out a string of curses as he encountered nothing but empty containers and expired goods. His desperation mounted with each fruitless search, every nook and cranny yielding nothing but the forgotten, rotten remnants of his former life.

"Damn it!" he snarled, slamming a cupboard door with enough force to rattle the dishes inside. "How could I have let things get this bad?" The thought that perhaps being kidnapped had somehow helped him realized how shallow his life had sank and perhaps he didn't completely hate himself to the point of self destructing made him feel no less shameful about it all.

His gaze drifted to the grimy window, where the clouds were slowly dispersing, allowing sunlight to peek through the grime-caked glass. A renewed sense of urgency gripped him as he realized the implications of the brightening sky.

"I can't go out in that," he muttered, his voice tinged with a mixture of frustration and resignation. "Not unless I want to end up the same way I did the night I was kidnapped. I seriously need to figure out this whole curse thing. Maybe I shouldn't have been harsh on that witch lady? After all, she does seem to know a lot about what I have become,"

"No, she locked me up in a fancy room and had me ring a bell to summon a butler who assaulted me with a spatula. Even if that was mild, her madman of a brother cut me with some magic attacks all over my body,"

As the words left his mouth, a sudden realization struck him. The persistent stinging sensation from his wounds, which had been a constant presence, had faded away without him noticing. Furrowing his brow, he quickly rolled up his sleeves and examined his arms.

"What the..." he muttered, his eyes widening in disbelief.

Where there should have been angry red gashes and cuts, he found only smooth, unblemished skin. Frantically, he checked his legs and torso, finding the same miraculous result everywhere he looked.

"I'll be damned," he whispered, a mix of awe and confusion in his voice. "Nebula was right. I do have some kind of accelerated healing."

He laid back on his kitchen counter, trying to process this new information. "But when did it happen? It couldn't have been that long ago. I swear I could still feel the pain just a little while back."

As if on cue, his stomach growled loudly, reminding him of the gnawing hunger he'd been feeling. A theory began to form in his mind.

"Wait a minute... Is that why I'm so ravenous? Did my body burn through a ton of energy to patch me up?" He ran a hand through his hair, feeling overwhelmed. "God, I need an instruction manual for this curse or something. Anything would be better than flying blind like this."

He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "But of course, that witch couldn't be bothered to leave behind a 'Cursed Life for Dummies' guide after killing my wife and turning my life upside down."

He stared at his healed skin, a mixture of gratitude and frustration washing over him. This new ability might save his life, but it also served as a constant reminder of how much had changed – and how little he understood about his new existence.

With a resigned sigh, George retreated to the bedroom, sinking into the tattered depths of his recliner.

He eyed the steadily brightening room with trepidation, knowing that hours would pass before the sun dipped below the horizon once more – hours spent trapped within the confines of his own personal purgatory.