Page 2 of Dark Rapture
Frowning, I step closer and blow it out a second time. I wait in the darkness for a few moments as the scent of smoke from the charred wick reaches my nose.
When it doesn’t ignite back to life on its own yet again, I turn and leave my walk-in closet and re-enter my bedroom. The spell bag in my pocket is a comforting weight, and I sigh from the relief its presence brings me.
I feel good about the spell I’ve cast today, confident in my success. I may be new to witchcraft, but everything feels so natural and innate for me. It is as though I was destined to walk this path.
As I head for the bedroom door, my phone rings, vibrating along the top of my dresser where I set it down before heading into my altar space. I grab it as I leave my bedroom and head into the kitchen to make some tea.
“Hello?” I answer as I walk into the kitchen, immediately searching the metal tin on the counter for a suitable bag of tea.
“Hi Selene. How are you feeling this morning, honeybee?”
Involuntarily, I wince at my mom’s nickname for me. When I was a kid, she explained that it was because I was sweet as can be unless someone was mean to me. My temper was apparently comparable to the sting of an angry bee.
As a child, the nickname used to make me feel special. An innocent, affectionate gift from my doting mother. It used to be a positive moniker, up until my uncle spoke the word into my ear while he forced himself on me.
It fell from his twisted mouth, defiled and poisoned. Now whenever I hear it, I have to fight back the urge to throw up.
“Hey Mom. I’m good, just about to start getting ready,” I tell her, rubbing my eyes with my free hand as I select a bag of fragrant green tea and start brewing it.
“Great! I’ve got the roast started in the crock pot, but I’m going to need your help with the macaroni salad and the vegetables,” she tells me, her voice loud over the clatter of dishes I can hear in the background. She is likely cleaning up as she cooks, something she has always done without fail. She used to tell me growing up that a good housewife didn’t leave a mess while she was cooking, she always kept her kitchen clean.
My father used to joke, and lovingly refer to our kitchen as her base of operations. Dad has always been a doting husband to my mother, never failing to thank her for all of her efforts around the home. I was a lucky kid, in the sense that my parents always had a strong, healthy relationship.
“Did you confirm who is coming?” I ask, already dreading her answer. I love my family, all except one particular member of it.
“Oh, yes. It will be me and your father, your brothers, grandma and grandpa. Oh, and Aunt Claire and Uncle Jake are coming too.”
I’m looking forward to seeing my paternal aunt, but that’s where my excitement ends.
Uncle Jake.I flinch as though his very name is a slap across the face. As my stomach turns, I am suddenly very grateful that I haven’t eaten breakfast today because I likely would have lost it right then and there.
I’ve repressed many memories associated with my mother’s brother, even our benign encounters. My subconscious mind has effectively blacked out his name and face from my memories to protect my psyche from the splintering distress of post traumatic stress.
“Okay, Mom. I’ll see you soon.” My thoughts turn back to the protection spell bag in my pocket, because nearly instantly it feels as though it has doubled in size and weight. The forces that guide me must be trying to remind me that I’ve cast this spell, therefore I will be safe no matter what I have to face at this family dinner.
My hand, trembling slightly, drops to feel the outline of it beneath the layer of denim fabric that conceals it. I close my eyes and take a steadying breath, trusting in the magic.
“Oh, okay, honeybee. Don’t forget to bring the vanilla extract for the cookies. See you this afternoon!”
“Bye Mom.”
“Bye Selene!”
I end the call and tuck the phone into my back pocket, grabbing the dark green mug from the coffee maker on my kitchen counter so I can walk it over to stand in front of the sink. As I stand there, I gaze out of the slightly dirty window at my small patio garden out back. The window is large, surrounded by hanging pots with various plants I use for spell casting and wards.
There are several hand crafted hanging ornaments made of old wood and glossy obsidian stone, with protective runes burned into the rough wood pieces, hanging among the assorted greenery. Nobody could enter this space and feel anything but the safe, positive energy I’ve brought into my living space.
All of my thoughtful warding controls the energy here in my apartment, blocking the negativity that pokes and prods at the barriers shielding me from the outside world.
With a weary sigh, I turn my attention to the large wooden box at the center of my garden which growsatropa belladonna, otherwise known as deadly nightshade. The plant has been growing out of control in the last two weeks, and has required a lot of pruning to keep it in the space I had designated for it.
I haven’t done anything differently with my garden lately, so I couldn’t figure out why the poisonous plant has suddenly decided to grow rapidly. Especially considering the fact that it’s autumn, not spring. At this point, it really shouldn’t be growing anymore until spring.
I bring the warm ceramic mug to my lips, tipping it towards my mouth to drink the steamy, earthy tea. The feeling of warmth spreads from my mouth and down to my belly, soothing my nerves.
Lingering on thoughts of my forbidden plant, I can’t help but wonder if my own thoughts had anything to do with its sudden speed of growth. It was only a couple weeks ago that I stood in this exact spot, staring at the plant as I fantasized about inviting my uncle over and sharing a cup of tea with him.
A lethal cup of nightshade tea. Sweetened with honey and a few of the midnight black-coloured berries from the unforgiving plant.
