They should have stopped at twelve. A dozen would've suited them perfectly. But no, they had to go and make a thirteenth. Unlucky number thirteen.

They called me Tretten, which they thought clever. It means thirteen in Danish. I preferred Trett myself.

Bad luck followed me everywhere. Car crashes happened after I crossed the street. An elevator I had just stepped off of crashed to the basement with the next load of people. Animals avoided me at all costs, except black cats, ironically.

On my thirteenth birthday, all twelve of my siblings died in a tragic fire. I escaped without a scratch, having left the house moments earlier. That same year, my school was hit by a meteorite, my piano teacher discovered she had cancer, and the neighbor whose lawn I mowed every Saturday lost every one of his pet chickens to the bird flu.

I was almost married once, but the day before we were due to be wed, my fiance was killed in a bank robbery. Her parents blamed me for it. They were right to.

But that was all about to end. Standing on the ten year old graves of my twelve siblings, I held a gun to my head and prepared to shoot. No more would bad luck follow my every step and cause pain to those around me.

The sound of my cellphone ringing gave me pause. It was my mother. In a tearful voice she informed me she was pregnant again. "No more thirteen children," she said. "No more bad luck!"

I shot myself anyway. No more thirteen children. No more bad luck. The fourteenth would live unscathed.