The Blaming of the Supernatural for Personal Faults or The Christine Walden Story

My social and physical awkwardness stems from a curse placed upon my family years ago by an embarrassed and angry witch. This witch had encountered one of my ancestors, a young, dashing lass, who walked as if upon water: enjoying the ripples beneath her feet all the while knowing that any who looked upon her believed themselves witnessing a miracle. A goddess walking amongst men, if you will. The witch, an opportunistic old croon, believed that if she was to befriend such a woman she would be propelled into the top tiers of polite society. With her magic and this ancestor-o-mine’s grace, they could control the small world in which they lived. Energized by the prospect, the witch approached my relative  and eloquently explained the proposition. Upon hearing the witch's idea, my ancestor looked at her, smiled kindly, and told her no. The witch, not completely dissuaded, asked why my ancestor would refuse such an opportunity. My ancestor replied, in a serious voice, I have no other desire than to spend my days wandering about these woods until I am accidentally shot down in a horrific hunting accident. I fear your plans would greatly interfere with my own. The witch was shocked. Hurt. Confused. Forlorn at the notion of my ancestor  wasting her gift. Shocked once more. And finally angry. (“ How dare some young harlot deny me  such a  future so she could be shot down in the woods!”) The witch, not ashamed to fulfill the stereotypes that had prevented her species from being considered socially acceptable, felt that my ancestor’s actions required punishment. Having accepted that the only redeeming quality my family member possessed was the innate grace which first attracted the witch with its silent call, she determined it was that gift that must be taken. She placed a curse on my relative which resulted in a hobbled, clumsy number that could only be called a walk in the most open-minded of circles and inspired ridicule and pity in all who saw it. Yet even in her lame, borderline dialed state, my relative retained her wits and good humor. The witch found her reaction to be an affront on the entire process and decided it was necessary to increase the size of the curse. She now made it so the curse affected my dear relative’s means of social interaction. She was unable to form cohesive, intelligent sentences or maintain eye contact with whomever she spoke. She stuttered, paused awkwardly, and tended to ramble in a fashion that caused mother’s to hide their children in her presence. She now suffered not only a bothersome lack of elegance while walking but its verbal equivalent! The witch was pleased. She had thoroughly disheartened my ancestor and punished her for her insolence. However, the amount of power the witch used in this punishment far exceeded the limits both women believed it lived within: it did not just affect my ancestor but her descendants as well. There now existed a discrepancy in my ancestor’s genetic code which manifests ever so rarely, an alteration that when dominant plagued its owner with the jilted witch’s curse. (There have only been a few recorded cases of this highly recessive gene surfacing with only one victim alive today. The living patient has tried various gene therapies and spells to have it removed but that witch proved most powerful albeit terribly fickle. I shall give you one guess as to who this mystery patient is. Give up? It is Rumpelstiltskin. It is always Rumpelstiltskin where guessing names and fairy tales are involved. Oh yes and first-born child payments. He often has a hand in those.)