Author's note: I own nothing. I'm in the midst of editing some stories that have been put on the backburner, and posting a few new ones... eventually, I'll find some time to update them all. Until then, here's a new story for y'all. The plot for this is so exciting. I can't wait to post more chapters!
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And I love prompts, so continue sending them!
~oOoOoOo~
The difference between my darkness and your darkness, is that I can look at my own badness in the face and accept its existence while you are busy covering your mirror with a white linen sheet. The difference between my sins and your sins is that, when I sin, I know I'm sinning, while you have actually fallen prey to your own fabricated illusions. I am a siren, a mermaid; I know that I am beautiful while basking on the ocean's waves and I know that I can eat flesh and bones at the bottom of the sea. You are a white witch, a wizard; your spells are manipulations and your cauldron from hell, yet you wrap yourself in white and wear a silver wig.
Witches don't look like anything. Witches are. Witches do.
Fiona's voice, once stern and confident, was now fading into more of an echo, descending down into the rabbit hole, just as Alice had done in Wonderland. Fiona could have started fires with the rage that was simmering inside of her tortured soul—misconceived, but also sinister—but she thought better of it. Today was not the day. There was a sliver of doubt in her thoughts pertaining to that statement, uttered in confidence… but she would not back down. Fiona possessed the poise of a Queen, determined to lead her soldiers down the right path and emerge victorious in the war… but Fiona didn't have any soldiers willing to fight her battles; none that mattered, anyhow. Fiona had friends… but they weren't lifelong friends. Half of them spoke to Fiona out of fear. The other half were merely sticking around to see Fiona fall upon her knees, and that moment was approaching sooner than Fiona would have hoped for. Her health was declining quickly.
Was Fiona scared… or was she not ready to go just yet? There was a difference. Whether she was sober or drunk, it was always the same thing… always the same game. Fiona had this… authentic magnetism about her. When she spoke, people listened. Unfortunately, she found that following her own advice was easier said than done.
Even a witch wants sympathy.
Jesus, she was in pain… Her whole life, Fiona had waltzed around, looking down upon the individuals encompassing her. And now, after all had been said and done, she was alone. She had no one, absolutely no one. Hell, her own daughter despised her. She wanted nothing more than to see her mother burn at the stake. Then again, most people did, but they didn't have the nerve that Cordelia possessed. At first, Fiona's daughter may have appeared to be meek and mild… timid, almost. But, when provoked, just enough to the point where Cordelia had, had her fill… she was most certainly Fiona's child. Whereas it didn't take much to set Fiona off, Cordelia was a bit more… complicated, for lack of a better word. She would endure the abuse she received on a daily basis to an extent, but when Cordelia had reached her limit, the world knew it—and suffered the consequences.
Some say there is history between souls. While Fiona was madness and sanity… hell, but paradise, her daughter was the exact opposite. Cordelia's eyes always gave her intentions away… that is… before the accident, not so much anymore. Fiona had watched—in awe, and also, almost… pride—as her daughter hardened, and finally, finally, realized her worth. Christ knew she couldn't have done it without a push from Fiona. It wasn't entirely encouraging… but it got the job done, nevertheless.
It was one thing to make a mistake; it was another thing to keep making it. I knew what happened when you let yourself get close to someone, when you started to believe they loved you: you'd be disappointed. Depend on someone, and you might as well admit you're going to be crushed, because when you really needed them, they wouldn't be there. Either that, or you'd confide in them and you added to their problems. All you ever really had was yourself, and that sort of sucked if you were less than reliable.
Fiona had lived her entire life being unreliable. She constantly broke promises, and was a disappointment to everyone around her, but she cared little… but that was back then. Now, Fiona was still unreliable… but trying, and that had to count for something, if only a sliver of decency. For a woman that didn't have a soul, Fiona was either one hell of an actress, or making progress. She desperately wanted to choose the latter. She'd never wanted to die an old woman, and now, a loathed old woman.
I can name the exact sounds a house makes when it crumbles, down to each moaning floorboard. I found out one day, by accident, when we were tearing down the walls in the kitchen to make room for cabinets. All hammers and nails and screeching drywall, dust from the ceiling falling on your back like snow. I almost remember how we got here. How one morning I looked at you and did not recognize you over my coffee. Somehow, overnight, inexplicably, your face had become a reminder for the things I no longer had.
We couldn't agree on a paint color for the cabinets. You never liked blue until now. There were so many things hidden. That phone call with your mother, where you asked her what she thought about me and she said, "I don't know, honey." That time I was home alone and took a bath and touched myself solely for myself. My moans coming out of the drywall like ghosts because I love my own blood. How it sings.
And I don't know if you heard what I heard, when everything crashed to the ground like a sinner to his knees, but it was all there. Every quiet moment, when we thought we were alone. When we thought the hallways were aching with us. Your mother's tight-lipped smile whispering through the vents, "You can do better. I'm sorry, but you can."
Everyone else's tongues are in our walls. I think sometimes that everything is about loneliness. How we bump into it. Sacrifice for it. Leave our families for the taste of it. Maybe that's what was behind the wallpaper in the bedroom, all rotting and quiet. But we were young, so we looked the other way.
People always say that it hurts at night and apparently screaming into your pillow at 3am is the romantic equivalent of being heartbroken.
But sometimes, it's 9am on a Tuesday morning, and you're standing at the kitchen bench waiting for the toast to pop up, and the smell of dusty sunlight and earl gray tea makes you miss him so much, you don't know what to do with your hands.
Fiona had experienced her first heartbreak at the age of fifteen. She was young, she was foolish, she thought she was in love. This was way back when, when Fiona's soul was probably still intact, when she used to feel so many emotions. Thinking back now, rampaging hormones were probably at fault for the profound emotions that surged through Fiona's arteries like a raging inferno. It was quite possible that Fiona had never been in possession of a soul. Fiona was water. Her first boyfriend was the drop of ink that descended into her glass. They changed each other.
One for the better, one for the worse…
Even at that age, Fiona's heart longed for roots, but her mind wanted wings. She couldn't bear to listen to their arguments any longer. From early on, she'd been an indecisive girl. She knew what she wanted. Fiona knew how to manipulate people into doing what she wanted. Fiona was wily, she always had been. She'd emerged from her mother's womb with a thirst for vengeance and brutality. Through heartache, Fiona learned that it wasn't wise to find sanctuary in anyone other than herself. She'd grown strong early on in life… immune to the ways of the world… insusceptible to vulnerability.
If that was the case, what the hell happened to Fiona between the age of 15 and now? Fiona was sentimental now. She was becoming a victim of regret.
How do you regret one of the best nights of your entire life? You don't. You remember every word, every look. Even when it hurts, you still remember.
How can you regret your own child… yet, in that same breath, confess your love for her in an expression that puts all words to shame? When Fiona glanced at her daughter, her beautiful little girl, in spite of being a grown woman, she saw everything that was never supposed to be… but the one thing that Fiona was most proud of.
I do not love; I do not love anybody except myself. That is a rather shocking thing to admit. I have none of the selfless love of my mother. I have none of the plodding, practical love… . . I am, to be blunt and concise, in love only with myself, my puny being with its small inadequate breasts and meager, thin talents. I am capable of affection for those who reflect my own world. — Sylvia Plath
Becoming a mother is a strange thing, to say the least. You can fight with your child all you'd like. You can curse your child's name and wish, in the back of your mind, that you'd never become their mother. You can despise your child. You can have a strained relationship with your child, as Fiona did with Cordelia… but at the end of the day, when the pieces have fallen into place and all is said and done, in spite of the complicated relationship that you have with your child… you will protect them. Hell or high water, you will fight for your child. The moment you stop showing affection… any sort of affection, even perplexing affection, is the moment you stop being a mother… and become a monster. Cordelia looked at Fiona like she was some sort of savage. She viewed Fiona in a light that the older woman would never come to understand. They had their arguments, Fiona would grant Delia that… but no words uttered from Fiona's lips have ever been intended to be hurtful in their nature. Whereas most mothers slapped their children on the wrist as punishment, Fiona slapped Cordelia across the face. She would spit words of such rage and hatred in her daughter's direction, but Fiona was nothing if not sincere.
A daughter without her mother is a woman broken. It is a loss that turns to arthritis and settles deep into her bones.
Fiona was a complicated woman. Cordelia had her number. The two women had been playing this game for so many years, but beneath all the disgust… the loathing… the mutilation… she knew that her mother loved her. Fiona wasn't able to express love. Christ, she didn't even celebrate her kid's birthday. Fiona hadn't engaged in such a trivial act of kindness—appreciation for her beautiful Delia—ever since she'd been a little girl. In those days, Delia had gotten the most lavish of gifts. She was looked upon my strangers, eager to take a peek at the Supreme's one and only daughter, if only for one time… Celebrities… Kings… Queens… Cordelia could have chosen to rule the world. Instead, she'd landed herself in this shithole Academy, and would remain so, probably until the day she died.
If the girl kept it up… she'd see that day sooner than she was hoping for.
I once knew a man who was heir to the throne of a great kingdom, he lived as a ranger and fought his destiny to sit on a throne but in his blood he was a king. I also knew a man who was the king of a small kingdom, it was very small and his throne very humble but he and his people were all brave and worthy conquerors. And I knew a man who sat on a magnificent throne of a big and majestic kingdom, but he was not a king at all, he was only a cowardly steward. If you are the king of a great kingdom, you will always be the only king though you live in the bushes. If you are the king of a small kingdom, you can lead your people in worth and honor and together conquer anything. And if you are not a king, though you sit on the king's throne and drape yourself in many fine robes of silk and velvet, you are still not the king and you will never be one.
It is a shame, really… that the daughter of the Supreme, the Queen of witches, grew up to be nothing more than a peasant chasing after a simple life and a husband that wasn't worth a damn. Cordelia may have inherited Fiona's good looks, but the girl didn't possess any detectable intelligence, nor did she have a sense of humor. Jesus Christ. Where did Fiona go wrong? What the hell happened to her daughter? Of all mothers in the world, Fiona should have given birth to the progeny.
… But that was just another check on Fiona's list of regrets. And it was all Fiona's fault, too.
I guess you shouldn't trust your tongue when your heart is bitter.