Who am I? What am I? How did I do it? Did I actually do it? Who knows? But I swear it was an accident. Whatever happened, I swear that I didn't do it on purpose, honest. I mean, yes, I did want her to die but I never wanted to do it. She was just so mean. I didn't want it to hurt, burning was too far, but I couldn't stop it. I panicked and ran and the rest … the rest is a blur. I stand before you now with full knowledge of what I am. You can accept it or not, but I have learned from my mistakes, and I'm going to be getting help. Daddy says it's just a load of … well, mummy said I shouldn't repeat what he said it was, and that he was just angry. But I know he doesn't approve, and mummy is having a hard time with him. But I don't care what he says.
I'm Phoenix Brite; I'm a Witch; and this is my story.
Prelude:
A deep gust of wind rattled the shutters of the open window at the foot of the bed. Tucked neatly between the bulky red mattress and fluffy duck down sheets was the witch Phoenix Brite. Her slumbering, raven-haired form lay rigid and still, her body long used to the harsh elements caused by living up in Little Hucklow, tucked into the side of the Peak District. Her pointed nose did nought but compress with every breath, and her rugged face scrunched ever so slightly as a rougher gust passed through the room. The hours rolled on, and still the girl did not move, until daybreak was met by the greeting of a cockerel from the farm across the road. Phoenix prised her eyes open and swept a shield of silvery blonde hair away from her deep chestnut eyes. Gone were her hard looks and rugged face, all replaced by more feminine features.
With a large yawn, Phoenix Brite clambered out of bed and staggered sleepily over to the open window, wrestling with the rusted shutters until they finally creaked into place, sounding one last screech of disapproval before falling silent. Phoenix's dainty feet carried five equally delicate toes, each adorned with a fluorescent pink toenail. Dragging herself across the floor to a marginally cracked mirror on the wall, she stared into it with lazy eyes and huffed. Scrunching her face up, her formerly rounded morning nose had extended slightly, and her hair now flowed down to her waist from its previous resting place upon her shoulders. With a satisfied grunt, she pulled the door open and tottered down the stairs.
Her parents were already up and wide awake, her mother, a tall and skinny woman with shiny blonde hair and flashing green eyes, tending to the breakfast – waffles flying across the room at a flick of the wrist and the wave of a stick never ceased to amaze Phoenix – and her father buried deeply inside the morning paper, 'Mornin' mum, dad.' Phoenix uttered as she slid onto the nearest chair available and heaved it across to the table. The room wasn't huge, but it wasn't small either, and was oddly clean for a country house. A neat limestone fireplace was etched into the wall, a cup of strange powder kept locked by its side, 'It's the ashes of your dear old Grandma, she always loved sitting by the fire on a cold day.' Phoenix could hear her mother's voice every time she stared at the cup. What space wasn't taken up by a not uncomfortable living suite was taken up by a second hand oak dining table and a few gas cookers, a small sink and work surfaces.
'Good morning Phoenix dear, waffles again I'm afraid, all out of bread… never quite got the hang of transfigu—' She was cut off by an unusually large snort from behind the paper, 'Morning Phoenix,' the voice behind the paper said, 'The chickens need feeding and the eggs need collecting, plus we need to let Bolt out of his stable for a quick run around before the derby, so eat up, get washed and ready and meet me out by the coop in half an hour.' Phoenix's dad pulled the paper away, revealing a puffy face adorned with two beady eyes, a sharp nose and a bushy moustache mounted on what would normally be a cheery smile. But not today. Today was the local derby preparation. Bolt was the family horse, bought on money from prime cattle and sheep raised for meat to be sold in the supermarkets as choice cuts, and renting out the fields to campers and caravan owners looking for a simple taste of Peak District air.
Phoenix wolfed down the waffles that had dive-bombed onto a floating plate and had glided slowly down to the table and started upstairs, looking back to see her parents in deep discussion, the veins on her father's neck pulsating with rage and his head either pointing in Phoenix's direction every few seconds, or just encountering an annoying twitch. Either way, Phoenix shuffled back upstairs and started up the shower. She arrived back in the main room dressed in scruffs – old unisex rags that she had been given for farm labour – and a pair of forest green Wellington boots. Her hair was now held back in a tight ponytail and had turned a shade of brown, as well as her features becoming more like her father's. Her mother was dressed in an old suit and top hat, a hazy monocle hanging limply from the suit's jacket pocket. She still busied around, making sure everything was neat and tidy. 'Bye sweetie.' Her mother finally said, bending slightly and giving Phoenix a small kiss on the cheek, 'Bye mum, see you later.' But her mother was already busy hurrying Phoenix out of the house, 'You'll be late for the chickens, can't have that today!'
Phoenix didn't resist. She would be eleven on the 13th of August; tomorrow, and would be getting 'special treatment' from her mother, so it was best to keep her in a good mood. She twisted around to wave and froze in her tracks, not even the shouts of 'Phoenix? Phoenix! Where are you?' from the coop snapped her out of her trance. Her mother had taken the ashes of Phoenix's grandmother, tapped them with a branch, pulled the locked – well, now unlocked – lid off, pulled some ashes out and thrown them into the fire. A warm green glow swallowed the room as her mother replaced the ashes and stepped into the fireplace. Phoenix couldn't stop herself. Her father had rounded the corner, spotted the act in the room and made a dive for Phoenix, 'No! Phoenix! You can't!' but he was too slow. Phoenix had burst back into the house just in time to see her mother engulfed by the green flames now in the grate. Her mother turned to see what the noise was and released a small whisper, 'Phoenix' and she was gone.
Phoenix fell to her knees, tears sliding down her smoothing face as it wiped out every blemish. In one smooth ripple, her face had lost the resemblance to her father and was now of her own creation. She didn't care for anyone anymore. She'd have to leave, that was inevitable, but she didn't care. Her father ran in and crouched beside her, holding her in a tight comforting hug. He knew only that you had to speak where you were going with Floo powder, and that you'd appear only in a grate connected to the Floo network. He knew of nowhere in the world of wizardry and witchcraft that was named Phoenix.
The day passed slowly. Visitors were met by a well rehearsed verse from Phoenix's father, 'Phoenix just lost her mother to an accident with the fire, I knew there had to be a gas leak or something but I never repaired it. I blame myself.' and then he'd cue the tears. Phoenix lay motionless in her bed through the dregs of the day and into the night. Her father grunted goodnight at one point and trudged to his room himself. No matter how hard she tried, however, Phoenix could not turn into the quiet and still male she always slept as. She kept her female form, and she was truly scared. Never had she been this scared since the fire incident at her Primary School five years ago. She glanced at the clock resting on her bedside table, 00:01, best make that incident six years ago. Slowly, she wept herself to sleep.
Across the street, under the dim light of an old Victorian street-lamp, a tabby cat sat, with round spectacle markings around its eyes. Seemingly satisfied, it darted up to the door of the Brite household and into the bushes beside the door. The lights around the area suddenly blinked out, and blinked back on. A large envelope sat in the mouth of the cat that emerged from the bushes. It deposited the letter under the door of the house and ran off into the night.