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originalpeasantjellyfish · 7 months

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September Blues (it's somehow okay with you)

A/N: September is hard y'all. This is a little different from what I usually write, but I think it turned out readable at the very least. It's also been a hot minute (read: months) since I wrote anything, so if there are any mistakes, please let me know. Love you and take care of yourself!

Relationship: Original Female Character/Reader

Tags/Warnings: Developing Relationship, Ambiguous Relationships, Fluff and Angst, Some Humor, Mentions of alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Depression, September, Reader's gender is not specified, reader is cheesy, One moment against the kitchen counter

Description: A collection of five times she looks at you differently.

2,687 words

You think there’s something different in the way she looks at you.

- - -

It first happens on a humid afternoon; a miraculous day where the both of you are free of commitments.

You’re lying on her sofa, playing a game on your phone as you listen to the sound of her tinkering around in the kitchen mixed with the drone of the news on the TV. (It’s strange, you think, she always seems to have the TV on when you come over, a different channel each time.)

The game is one you haven’t touched in a while, and it rewards you with an hour of free lives and power-ups. You seize the opportunity and try to level up as much as you can, matching fruit and watching bombs explode.

She pokes her head out of the kitchen, a tsk on her lips when she sees that you haven’t moved since she entered the kitchen.

“Are you still playing that game?”

“Uh-huh,” you hum in reply, doing a happy wiggle dance (lying down edition) as you beat a tough level in one try and get three times the points, “It’s the one you showed me months ago.”

She hums, disappearing into the kitchen once more. Though you swear you see her roll her eyes and smile.

The scent of delicious fried rice in the air lures you from the game, and you look up just in time to hear her asking you to set the table.

And so you do, remaining 25 minutes of free power-ups be damned.

- - -

When it happens again, you’re in the passenger seat of her car. It was an hour into the road trip and this was the second time she had pulled over to find a gas station restroom.

You sigh, leaning your head against the window and watching as the window fogs up with your breath. You hated September. It always brought up difficult feelings and this year was no different; whether it was the guilt from having survived, grief for everything that was now gone, or the loss you were at when thinking about the future.

The car is suddenly much too quiet with just the engine running.

But it was way too early in the morning for those kinds of thoughts, so you let your eyes close.

The car door opens on the driver’s side and she’s standing there with the light of the gas station convenience store behind her, and all you can think about is how she looks like an angel.

She sets two tumblers into the console’s cupholders and a plastic bag on the floor of the backseat before quickly getting in and closing the door.

“It’s freezing outside,” she says, blowing on her hands and shivering, “I got your favourite tea, I think, the guy inside blanked when I asked for English Breakfast so I bought a small box of it and asked for hot water. Although I think the water might not have been boiling, and there’s no sugar or anything.”

You must have just been staring at her because she carefully picks up a tumbler and unscrews it, blowing on its contents before handing it to you.

You accept it with both hands on instinct, staring at the brown liquid before looking back up at her.

Her hair was sticking up in places, backlit so clearly by the LED lights behind her that each individual strand seemed to glow. The result of being up since 4am and not much sleep the night before.

Guilt churns in your stomach, dissolving any butterflies.

“Is something wrong?” Her voice is softer now, eyes lidded with concern. “C’mon, you can tell me anything,” she adds, poking your shoulder playfully.

“Isn’t it tiring?”

“What is?”

“This. Driving me to that place every year. In the middle of project season.”

It’s her turn to sigh now.

“Hey dummy, look at me.” She takes the tumbler from your hands, returning it to the cupholder. Her hands take its place, and you find that they’re warmer. The look in her eyes is serious, and it almost scares you. You’ve hardly seen her like this before. “Going there is important to you, right?”

You nod silently.

“Then it’s important to me. And like I’ve said before, I’m willing to drive you every year. You don’t have to take the bus, you don’t have to do this alone.”

“But you don’t even know why—”

“That doesn’t matter. You don’t have to tell me, I’ll drive you either way.”

“Why?” You ask.

She smiles, although it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Because when you called me three years ago asking for a ride, I agreed, and I don’t break my promises to those I care about.”

A truck pulls into the gas station at that moment, and the sound of bells chiming barely fills the car as a bearded trucker enters the store without so much as a glance at the both of you.

It gets quiet enough for you to hear her clear her throat when she releases your hands from hers, and you miss the warmth instantly.

She puts on her seatbelt and adjusts the mirror. “Ready to go?”

“Yes,” you reply, reaching for the tumbler, you didn’t miss the way her voice had cracked slightly earlier. “And thank you for driving me again.”

“It’s my pleasure.” Her free hand rests on your thigh, as if telling you, "I'm here for you." And you lace your fingers between hers, grateful.

The rest of the trip is carried out in silence. She stands behind you as you lay a single sunflower under a large tree, and you watch the sunrise together. Just like last year. And the year before that.

She tries the tea on the way back, nearly gagging as you chuckle. It was bitter and somehow under-steeped, but you finish it anyway, thanking your tea-bringing angel and enjoying her confused look at the nickname.

You keep the store-brand box of tea bags she bought, displaying it proudly in your kitchen.

- - -

The third time happens two months after the trip.

This time, you’re in her new kitchen, looking at her impressive collection of tumblers.

“Did you find the tongs?” She asks from behind you.

“Did you raid every coffee shop?”

“What?”

“What? I’m serious, you could open a tumbler shop with the amount you have.”

She blinks at you, eyes narrowed, and turns back to stirring the pot of soup on the stove. You notice the tip of her ears were red, so you close the cupboard and start looking through the neatly organised drawers instead, searching for the elusive pair of tongs.

“Did you even keep the tongs after you moved?” You ask, staring into a drawer filled with cupcake liners and piping tips.

The stirring stops.

You look at her, her face was slightly flushed now, an embarrassed smile half on her lips.

“My tea-bringing angel, have the tongs ever existed in this kitchen?”

She keeps quiet, so you poke her side, earning a swat to your hand.

“Hey!”

“Just shut it.”

“I’m not the one who just sent me on a wild goose chase for tongs that ever existed,” you pout. “And I’m not the one who has a cupboard full of tumblers and baking supplies I don’t use,” you add under your breath.

Unfortunately for you, the close proximity meant she heard every word.

The gas stove clicks as it shuts off, each beat sending a shiver up your spine. She turns quickly, each hand on the counter on each side of you, effectively trapping you between her arms.

She’s close, so close that you can smell the expensive shampoo she saves for special days. “Someone’s being a bit of a brat today, aren’t they?” Her face is mere inches from yours, and you feel her warm breath on your face.

You swallow, she’s pressed against you, and the edge of the counter digs into your back. There’s something in her eyes you’d seen before, something that was half playful, half serious, and maybe half that look she’d given you when you showed her your new swimsuit that one night.

That was too many halves; you were never really good at math, and that thought crossed your mind as she leans in closer and you hope she couldn’t feel your heart beating against hers.

“I—um…” You trail off, averting your gaze to the white tile floor. (Of course, it was white, this was her. She liked clean things.)

“Nothing to say now? You teased me so much that you’ve used up all your words for the day?”

“No…” You reply, catching yourself before you can shake your head as a response. That would only prove her point.

She hums, not really believing you. An arm leaves its post and her fingers trail up yours, leaving goosebumps in it’s wake.

“Do you want to know why I invited you here?”

You do. She’d mentioned it when you helped her move in two weeks ago.

It was a simple thank you meal, right?

The rice cooker switch flips, making you jump.

She releases you then, asking you to set the table with that smirk she got on her face when she knew she riled you up.

You don't get much sleep that night.

- - -

The fourth time, well, the fourth time was a disaster.

It was September again. And you remembered and remembered everything.

So you drank.

It didn't matter that you were four years sober at that point.

It didn't matter that the only alcohol available were the cheap wines and beers sold at the 24-hour convenience store a block away.

You took what you could get.

And you drank.

She gets a call in the middle of the night. The slurred words and teary voice at the end muttering her name was all it took to get her to your place in record time.

Only the TV is on when she enters, shivering from the cold air of dawn outside.

She finds you curled on the floor, and that it is as warm inside as it was outside. She eyes the two empty bottles on the coffee table before helping you up.

You shake in her arms, clinging to the only warm thing in the room.

"You're gonna make yourself sick if you keep doing this," she says.

It's a little later, early morning light starting to fill the room through the crack in the curtain as the sun rises. It's strange, she thinks, that she'd only seen a few sunrises in her life, and most of them had been with you.

You barely hear her, opting to focus on the ugly popcorn ceiling of your rented room.

She sighs, turning her gaze away from the calendar on your desk.

September had been torn off. Of course it had been, she knew how it was. It'd been like that since she met you.

"Move in a little," she requests, lifting the covers to climb in beside you.

The bed is small, barely fitting the both of you on your backs. Her arm lays on top of yours. It's suffocating and comforting all at the same time.

Sounds from the street become more audible as the world starts waking from its slumber. Bird song and your neighbours' children groaning as they got up for school and the one car owned by the office worker living above you which always took three tries to start when it was cold.

It's wonderfully domestic with her lying next to you.

And you start remembering.

She's roused from her almost sleep when your breath hitches and a sob emerges.

As calm as always (she had to be, in these situations especially), she shifts to her side, half sitting up and half propped up by her elbow as she reaches for tissues and wipes your face.

It takes a good minute for you to start breathing evenly again, but she's gentle with her touches, always softly dabbing away the tears instead of rubbing your cheeks, and it makes you cry harder.

"Tell me what's going on," she pleads, "I don't know what to do." It's an unusual tone on her, because the only other times she does, it is when she's giving you puppy dog eyes when deciding what to eat for dinner or which movie to watch, even though she knows you would end up going along with what she chose. It's unusual because this was genuine.

You take a shuddery breath, making the bed shake. "I want to forget, I want to forget everything. I don't want to do this anymore."

"You said the same thing last time."

She was wrong. This wasn't like the last time you called her in tears. That was four years ago, when someone bumped into you at the bus stop and you'd dropped the sunflower, watching helplessly as it got blown onto the road before you could pick it up and get crushed by an oncoming car.

You had thought she would laugh at you for crying and calling her over a flower, but she showed up, only a month since she met you, a work contact nonetheless, and sat with you as you sobbed.

In the present, you shake your head and cover your eyes with your hands, hiding the fresh tears leaking down your face.

There was no way you could ever speak about September.

She wipes your tears and lies back down, on her side this time, and puts an arm around you.

There were some things she couldn’t fix, but she hoped this wouldn’t be one of them.

- - -

The fifth time, it gets better.

You’re on the sofa again, her head in your lap as she scrolls through a food delivery app.

The TV is on, it’s a drama this time, one about time-travelling and companions.

Your name leaves her lips and you hum in reply, looking down at her as she shows you a restaurant on the app.

Her hair tickles the skin of your thighs as she speaks, eyes sparkling as she describes the place famous for its spicy chicken stew, one she tried a few weeks and loved.

You’ve heard this before, of course, she told you about it the moment she got home; a takeaway container with steaming red stew placed in front of you and her expectant eyes watching as she handed you a spoon.

It was delicious, and she brightened at your validation, grinning at you as she took the seat across from you and talked about what happened that day. You didn’t even mind that you’d already brushed your teeth that night.

It’s an easy decision, and the order is placed.

The drama continues to play on TV as you eat. She laughs when you get stew on your shirt, only to immediately pout when she realises it was one of hers.

“You know, if I’d known you were gonna steal my clothes all the time, I would have gotten you a copy of my wardrobe for Christmas.” Her voice is light in the small bathroom.

“Hmm,” you hum, considering her words as you scrub at the shirt with a stain stick, “No, it wouldn’t be the same.”

“Why not?” Her eyes are curious and with a glint of playfulness, and it takes an incredible amount of effort to not squish her cheeks with your hands, wet as they might be.

“Because they wouldn’t smell like you.”

Her reaction is immediate, “That’s so cheesy! Who says that?” She laughs, turning on the faucet and splashing water at you.

You splash back, laughing at how wide her smile was, and it turns into a water fight with the both of you giggling like children.

As you clean up around her, no, your, apartment that night, (“It’s your place now too, dummy,” she whispered on one of the many nights you slept over.) you listen as she sings a pop song in the shower, and realise that as long as she was by your side, looking at you the way she did now, you could handle anything.

Even September.

#original story #Original Female Character/Reader

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originalpeasantjellyfish · 1 year

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My friend once asked me if I would rather lose my memory or sight. It was one of those questions she found on the internet and was fond of asking. We had met for lunch at a vintage themed cafe and went for a spontaneous hike. It was much too hot and humid for a hike; it always is.

I thought about it for a while, the voices in me and the me in the voices debating on which we would survive without.

The obvious answer was to lose memories; after all, new memories could always be made, and we were forgetting anyway. Without our sight, we couldn't write or read or sew, the things which brought us peace. Day to day life would be a challenge too, cities and the people in them weren't necessarily kind to those without sight.

But then a breeze blew past us and I could smell the forest. Sally's room came to mind. I couldn't forget Sally, blonde hair and all smiles, separated from green by a piece of glass. I couldn't lose her.

And how could I forget her? The mysterious one from those dreams? The way she made me feel when she leant in?

My friend replied that she would rather lose her memories. Photography was her hobby and her reasoning was that she had the photos she took to remind her of her memories: the places she'd visited, the people around her, even the trinkets in the cafe.

I was never more envious of her than I was at that moment.

There is nothing in this world which belongs to or reminds me of them. My musings about them might survive, yes, maybe even the descriptions; but even reading them doesn't make me feel the same way.

It's only when I close my eyes and live in those memories do I know them. If I forgot Sally, forgot the mysterious woman, they wouldn't exist anymore, and I would never see them again.

They would be lost forever. I couldn't do that to them.

So I answered that I would rather lose my sight. And I think that was the most truthful I'd been in a while.

#spilled ink

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originalpeasantjellyfish · 1 year

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On permanence

My journal for this year has comprised of more pictures than words. And the exact opposite is true for the mess I make on the computer. It’s rather strange actually, you would think that with the ease of inserting pictures in electronic documents these days, there would be more pictures in my stories.

But there isn’t. My stories, my blogs, they are full of words, the same 26 characters arranged and rearranged in different ways. Meanwhile, my analogue journal is a mix up of different images, none taken by me, just lines and colours that I thought looked nice.

Maybe the reason is because when typing, the words are never finished, you can always go back and change them, fix your mistakes, add a few more points, maybe even delete the whole thing and start from scratch. You don’t get that kind of luxury on paper. The words on paper are permanent. Yes, you can cover it up, erase them, but the paper will always hold onto the words. No matter how many layers of correction tape or fluid you build onto the page, or how pristine you manage to get the page with an eraser, the indents are always there. The paper remembers, it holds onto the memory of your instrument and emotions.

#spilled ink

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originalpeasantjellyfish · 1 year

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Time feels like a lake. The hours thick in my throat and around my body as they drag me to the bottom. The lake never stays the same, the water molecules are always moving, always being disturbed by something; it’s hard to breathe. Days and months fly by above, and everything spins.

Notebooks with lines of ink I’ve poured hours into line my shelf, thick with dust. Time has been paying attention to them. The words are not mine, the things I keep and hold close never are, and they collect dust nonetheless. One sweep of the hand and everything goes flying, the books clatter to the floor. The dust floats; It’ll find something else for a while, and come back for the words.

Songs stored on my phone from when I knew nothing and everything start playing in my earbuds again. The feelings are not the same. I knew nothing then. Still, I find the songs on Spotify and save them into a playlist, listening as I write something meaningless. I know nothing now, and everything then.

You say it’s alright, it’s okay, everyone feels like this sometimes. You tell me it’s called growing up, it’s called being burnt out. And I want to ask you when it’ll be done, when I will start making sense again.

#spilled ink

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originalpeasantjellyfish · 1 year

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I think I lost someone II

I dreamt of her again.

This time, it was different. We were sitting together, somewhere. It was dark. She was on my left. I remember how warm her side was against my ribs, what it was like to melt into her.

“Can I lean on you?” I asked, looking up at her, as if I wasn’t already buried in her side. This time, I know I saw her face. I know I did.

But I can’t describe it. The words leave my mind when I try to picture it.

My head felt heavy as soon as the words left my mouth; it was strange, being able to speak to her for the first time. I wanted to lay my head on her shoulder, breathe her in.

She disappeared after that, and I woke up.

#spilled ink

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originalpeasantjellyfish · 1 year

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I think I lost someone.

I’ve been having these dreams, whether or not they’ve manifested from the longing etched on my bones I can’t be sure.

It always starts the same, I’m sitting on the floor of a small apartment, my back pressed against a kitchen counter. My knees are against my face as I weep, it’s weird that I’m crying in there when I barely do in real life. The large windows in front of me are filled with a bright white light. Gleaming buildings take up all the space in that large opening.

There’s someone else in the apartment with me, this I’m vaguely aware of. I think they’re saying something, but it all sounds like a low hum.

The space is beige and white, the most boring of the neutral shades, but they are also the most versatile, suitable for most occasions; adaptable. There’s a beige sofa on the right, facing a tv, it’s large and soft, almost plush. The coffee table is a deep brown, two mugs on its surface.

In the dream, I close my eyes, trying to breathe. She sits beside me. Her arm is warm against mine. She says something, but I don’t understand it.

I look up, wanting to know more, to understand, and suddenly she’s in front of me, her face a mystery. Everything is slow, moving through the thick haze of the dream.

She leans closer and closer, arms so close to surrounding me that I can see each thread of cream yarn on her shoulder. I can almost breathe her in. The light in the window changes, pale yellow sunlight streaming in. Somehow, I know that it’s warm and quiet within her, so I reach out.

It’d be safe with her.

Almost.

So safe.

Almost.

And then I wake up cold, being swallowed by a grief so crushing my body is heavy for the rest of the day. The dreams sit in my mind, and when it decides to visit me in the middle of the day, so does the grief, slowly eating away at me.

I tried not to think about it, chalking it up to an overly active imagination and high empathy the first time.

But it happens again and again. Always starting the same way and ending the same.

Sometimes, I’m aware I’m dreaming, and I try to look at her, but I can never see her face, or rather, I can’t remember it. I don’t know who she is, did I ever?

Sometimes, I know how it ends, so I just let it happen, not reaching out, grasping my knees tightly and quietly hoping it wouldn’t be the same; the picture of passivity. But it always ends the same way; her reaching towards me, always so close and getting closer but everything is gone in an instant, no matter what I do.

How do I tell her that I just want to stay with her in that dream? How do I tell her that I sometimes hear her laugh along with me and everything gets quiet? Or that I’m trying to remember her, that I’m sorry I doubt her existence sometimes?

How do I put this feeling into words? Me grasping at the haze of the dream, desperately trying to touch her, slowly losing my mind as dream and memory meld together?

Sally says that dreams are not always literal, that they are often just symbols, metaphors, which our brain put together into a neat little story to help process the information it learned.

“But I’ve dreamt of memories, and the grief from this dream was different, too real. It must have happened,” I say, looking out the window into Sally’s garden; it’s always green, frozen behind glass.

“I must have lost someone, or I wouldn’t be missing this much.”

I can’t ever speak in that dream, although I can in the house in my head.

Sally just smiles sadly, opening her arms and letting me settle on her lap. She begins humming, it’s higher, a children’s lullaby we heard somewhere. She’s good at comforting, at chasing the shadows into the closet, although she tells me I have to be the one to either lock the door or finally make friends with them. Sally reminds me of someone I would have loved to have at my side when I was smaller.

In bed, my eyes open, looking into the dark. Sally’s humming in the back of my head.

This physical plane is full of stories and music and flowers and sunsets and rain which I would miss terribly if I was gone, but I’m always alone, always wishing for more. There’s no Sally or the mysterious woman in my dreams.

I think of the apartment again. It’s clear in my head, even though my eyes blur when I think of it. The kitchen is next to the front door, an island separating the space from the living room. The counter is grey with a rounded edge, it’s clear from mess and there are no barstools. There’s a hallway on the other side of the kitchen; the lights are always off there, but I know there are two other rooms.

The living space is beige and white, beige couch, white walls, a large window taking up an entire wall. In the dream, I will sometimes remember sitting in front of it, watching the clouds reflected off the glass of the buildings; and her beside me, watching the light with our shoulders pressed together.

Does a memory within a dream count as an actual memory? I never care for long enough to think for the answer before we’re sitting in front of the counter and she is leaning close to me again, before I wake alone once more, trying to shake off the grief and get on with my day.

It is unhealthy to pine for someone you can’t have, to want to live in a memory which might never have been. I know, I know, I know.

But I can’t help it. Every second in that dream is a day I would gladly surrender from this physical life.

#spilled ink #grief #escapism #memory #longing

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originalpeasantjellyfish · 1 year

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"Hey Ro"

A/N: I wrote this way back in 2018. She does have a new name now.

“Hey Ro? Do you think we’ll be okay?”

The first time she asked me that we were laying on the floor, faces to the sky, the dirt from the past four days of being alive stuck to her skin, a white shirt was the only thing protecting her from the cold embrace of the ground.

‘Ro’ was one of the many things she named me, ‘tasha’ and ‘nat’ had their fifteen seconds of fame and were slowly fading, but they were sure to rise again, the desires chained to them stronger than ever.

Despite knowing her for almost all her life and being by her side since we first met, the question was still unexpected. Sure she had her insecurities, but they always lacked form, simply floating around in shapeless clouds, lingering in the sky of her mind.

The fact that any of them managed to build up large enough, dense enough to touch her was concerning to say the least.

She was running out of space in her head.

“I don’t know” I admitted, I wasn’t all knowing after all. She had created me, I knew as much as she did.

Fear was stacking itself up inside her, growing taller and stronger. Then with one shudder, one tear, she knocked the tower down, leaving only the foundations.

She rolled to her side and let out a soft laugh, a single tear appeared. Wiping it away with one hand, she sat up and moved onto the bed, feet where the head should be and head where feet should be. I stayed on the floor, still staring at the sky, the clouds looked a little darker, heavier. The ground beneath my back cooled the spine, gently straightening it.

“Hey Ro, do you think we’ll be okay?”

The second time she asked me that we were on the floor again, only this time we were sitting up, backs pressed against the bed frame. Her eyes were focused on her phone, thighs sticking to the tile of the floor, hair wet from not showering. The few days of living were stuck to her skin again. She’d fallen again.

I didn’t answer this time, what was there to say? She had worsened over time, needing more and more help accomplishing the simplest of tasks, going to shower turned into hundreds of tasks: getting up, putting your foot on the floor, taking one step, and another, reaching for the towel, taking tens of steps to the bathroom, turning the lights on, turning the hot water on, getting in the bathroom, closing the door, placing the towel on the towel rack, flipping down the toilet seat cover, taking your glasses off, putting them on the sink, taking your shirt off, place it on the cover, then your pants, place those on the cover, then your bra, just throw them on the cover, then your underwear, toss it in the sink, turning the water on, reaching to adjust the water temperature, then finally, shower.

She was getting tired too, talking to me less, it turned into me just giving instructions while she operated on autopilot.

“I just want to tell her that I'm sorry… and that I love her. And just have her hear it again. I just need her to hear that one more time” She muted the Instavideo, tears were tethering over the edges, but they don’t fall. They never fall. She knew she needed to feel the sadness. I knew we needed to feel the sadness, that was the only way to escape from it, even if only a little while.

#original story #tw depression

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originalpeasantjellyfish · 1 year

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Of the Moon and the River

A/N: This an original work that I wrote in one day for a story class I took in 2019/20.

Trigger warnings: Descriptions of self harm. Mentions of starvation, death, burning to death.

Description: Magic grows stronger under the full moon, for the goddess of magic and the moon were one. In short, the presence of the full moon made everything worse for 13 year old Hecate; her own magic was already tiring to control, but the full moon fueled them even more. On one such night, while trying to calm the magic inside her, Hecate seeks the help of the river to beat the moon. Instead, she finds solace in the comfort of her Mama and Papa.

1206 Words AO3 Link

The swollen moon lit up the night sky, a cold breeze fluttered the thin white curtains above the bed where Hecate lay. It was nights like this where the magic inside her cried and begged to be let out, filling her mind to the point it was void of anything else. The blanket had been tucked securely under her chin by Mama several hours before, but it no longer provided the comfort it did when it smelled like the flowers Mama loved braiding into her own hair.

Hecate sat up, the grey blanket falling into a puddle on her lap, and quietly sighed. She hated nights like this. It made her just a little more dependent on the people she did not want to burden, people who spent their own time and effort into caring for her. She grabbed the little knife from its place on the windowsill, its heavy weight reminded Hecate of the consequences her own power had. After seeing Hecate struggle more than once with the larger tool that he himself used, Papa made another for her, its smaller size and etched protection sigils made her work a lot easier and gave him a piece of mind, but now, this little knife would serve another purpose. Rolling up the sleeve on her left arm, Hecate carefully cut the tender skin.

A sharp intake of cold air met her teeth as she winced at the sharp pain. Hecate hadn’t applied enough pressure for her arm to bleed, it was just enough to break the skin and sting; even if she had, no blood would have appeared that night, for the cuts healed as soon as they formed. These little familiar actions offered little relief, although the cuts gave the magic an outlet of release, it wasn’t enough, and the magic continued to cry and begged to be let out.

Hecate turned to face the window, admiring and despising the moon that hung high in the night sky. A cold breeze aided by the freezing river outside gently ruffled her dark as night hair. She stared at the moon, and the moon stared back, and all at once the magic inside let out a loud wail. Unable to take it anymore, Hecate wrapped the blanket around her and headed out of the little cottage, abandoning the little knife that now sat on the lumpy bed.

Things can’t get any worse than this, being outside meant that the moon fueled her already powerful magic even more, which was starting to come out in short bursts; the fabric of the blanket her hand tightly grasped was unwinding, changing from grey to white, tiny crystals to ice formed and disappeared, all these happened all at once, one after the other in a random fashion.

It was a short walk to the river, yet the little stone path seemed to stretch on forever thanks to the magic that pulsed and radiated from her being, still, Hecate trudged on, the worn-down stones on her bare feet did nothing to provide relief from the raging magic. Soon enough, the scent of river water and wet grass met Hecate’s nose, along with the sound of trickling water and quiet mumbling.

Papa was there, on the damp riverbank with his face to the stars, lips moving with little sound produced. To the common person it would have seemed strange, after all, what would a man be doing in the wee hours of the night, dressed in nothing but a thin night shirt when every breeze was a reflection of what an ice queen could do? To Hecate however, this was an everyday occurrence, the magic inside her and Mama and Papa was the very essence of survival; it nourished them when their stomachs lay empty, allowed them to survive most temperatures when most people would perish, prevented the hands of death from touching their souls. That’s not to say people with magic do not feel the pain from an empty stomach or aching cold, and death comes for all, even if they are embedded with the very essence of survival; a witch can still be burnt to death, for fire was its own master and like death, consumed everything in its path without a hint of mercy or regret.

Hecate approached the river, allowing the water to pool in her hands, and drank. The gelid water ran down her throat and numbed her being, while it did nothing to quench the desperation of the magic inside, its frore nature stole the spotlight from magic, pushing its cries to the back of Hecate’s mind.

Hecate was about to take another drink when Papa suddenly spoke up, “Humans are flawed little one, their beautiful mind is what corrupts them. They create stories, passing them down from generation to generation, just so that others can feel what they felt, so that those who never existed continue to live in the minds of others.”.

Papa’s words were met with silence, for Hecate wasn’t sure what to think, while Papa often said things that were beyond her, it was almost always about magic, not stories. The stories Papa and Mama told her of the ancient witches, of the origin of magic, those she understood, but these words Papa spoke in that cold night mystified her. She turned away from the river to face Papa and sat in the wet grass next to him, his eyes were closed, hands folded neatly on his stomach.

“Papa, what does that mean?”

“Hmm… don’t you think so little one?”

“I don’t understand.”

“People see what they want to see, no? They face the wall, their backs to the lights, feeding the hole inside them.”

Mama’s soft voice came from behind them, “What are you darlings doing outside? The full moon keeping you awake?”.

“Mama, Papa’s not making any sense.”

“He never makes sense sweetheart, it’s just the way he is, sometimes he says things that don’t make sense when you hear them, but they always do.”

Mama stood next to Hecate, her nightgown flowing as a cold breeze passed by, the scent of wildflowers swaying with the breeze. A warm hand was offered, which Hecate readily took. Moving to lay next to Papa, the grey blanket was spread out among the three of them, laying in the cold wet grass with their faces to the stars. Hecate snuggled between them, and closed her eyes, the magic had been calling out all this time, demanding to be let out, but in that very moment, Papa’s words and the smell of flowers from Mama and the sense of contentment from being between them washed away the cries. They formed a cloud that blocked out the effects of the moon.

It was quiet, save for the trickling of the river and the sighs as the cold air was breathed in. The magic was starting to fade, their wailing allaying as Hecate feels herself drift off into the calm of unconsciousness.

The river continued to flow, the sound of trickling water becoming the backdrop of many more nights with the three of them just laying there in the grass, sometimes the air would be full of tales of magic, while other moments were filled with silence.

#original story #tw selfharm

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