Fiona's vermilion lips curled into a vivacious sneer as her lithe digits thrummed upon the mahogany chiffonier sitting beside her, her slender physique situated in a velvet chaise lounge fit for a Supreme. The hide that sheathed the chaise lounge was as raven as the evening sky, deprived of the radiance of the stars. Temperate droplets of rainwater cascaded down from the somber sky above, overcast in its appearance, and stained the yielding roof of Miss Robichaux's Academy for Exceptional Young Ladies. Several of the girls were downstairs in the common room, chatting amongst themselves, discussing petty matters, such as sex, boys and the drama that plagued their everyday lives, but Fiona cared not. She wasn't concerned about the weaklings that dared to call themselves witches. She wasn't concerned about anyone other than herself, including Cordelia—the one failure that would haunt Fiona into eternity.
The torrent of rain had bombarded down as if it had been impassioned, the barrage of thunder rumbling like a thousand bowling pins had been thrashed upon the canvas as the wrecking ball swayed, the roar of it reverberating and disseminating upon the sodden province of New Orleans. The thunderstorm reminded Fiona of her youth, the days when she had been wild and free—invincible. The thunder that howled like an aggravated lion resembled Fiona's personality, passionate, but fierce; aloof, even. Fiona wasn't interested in the things that surrounded her unless they impacted her schedule, a tragedy that the Supreme of Salem descendants just couldn't have.
Sitting there, left in her own company, without any interruptions from Cordelia, Myrtle or any of the other students, Fiona had an opportunity to reflect upon her life, something that she often did, especially in her later years. Fiona was left alone with her own thoughts. It was a curse as much as it was a blessing.
Fiona had been a shit mother to her precious Delia, cruising out and about with strange men while she left her underage daughter at home to cook and fend for herself. She hadn't a care in the world, not about the men that Fiona cavorted with, certainly not about Cordelia, but Fiona was blind then. Stupid, even. She didn't realize how much damage she was inflicting upon not only herself, but her daughter, as well—an alliance that would have benefited her down the line, only to be strained now, no thanks to Cordelia's asshole of a husband, Hank. He was a weasel. Fiona would have loved to see his intestines be torn out from his abdomen, but it would only count as something worth while if he had been hung from them, and slowly suffocated. He deserved it, and many other things, for turning Cordelia against Fiona.
Since Fiona's return at the Academy, Cordelia's glares were like glaciers that penetrated Fiona's very soul—what was left of it, rather—and left Fiona feeling like the wretched human being that she was. She didn't expect Cordelia's forgiveness, but god damn, the girl could give her mother a break. Didn't she realize how exhausted Fiona was? How could Cordelia not recognize the very life force draining from Fiona's body?
The cancer—the fucking illness—that had embedded itself within the ridges of Fiona's spine, was all at the hands of one of Cordelia's students. The little shithead was murdering the coven's only hope of survival each day, a prolonged death, a cruel cosmic joke.
It was definitely a joke, but there was certainly nothing funny about it. Fiona wasn't laughing, nor was she impressed. She was pissed off. Fiona had the weight of the world balanced atop her shoulders, a burdensome, imperceptible afghan strewn above Fiona's head, asphyxiating her with each respiration that she drew into her lungs. Fiona wouldn't have wished this fate on her worst enemy… except, perhaps, Marie Laveau, the Queen of Voodoo. As the woman's name popped into Fiona's mind, she rolled her eyes. That woman wasn't the queen of shit. The only power she had descended from an illiterate slave girl. It wasn't much to brag about.
Oh, but Marie Laveau had hers coming. Her fate would be worse than the cancer that was wreaking havoc on Fiona's body. Fiona was making it her mission to ensure that the black witch died a thousand horrific deaths, each one more excruciating than the last. Hers was coming, and it was coming quick.
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Fiona had been scorned, alright. Scorned the day she sat in the voodoo practitioner's shit saloon and had piss-poor hair extensions weaved into her blonde tresses. Marie should have been bowing at Fiona's feet for even being granted with the privilege of intertwining her fingers through Fiona's silken hair. The day Marie laughed in Fiona's face.
Fiona was after eternal life, and she damn well intended to get it, no matter whose death ended up being collateral damage.
Regardless of the events that had taken place in the past, this coven needed Fiona. Cordelia needed Fiona.
The coven didn't need a new Supreme. What the coven needed, was a Supreme with balls, a Supreme that wasn't afraid of a little blood staining her pumps.
A smirk adorned Fiona's face as she swung her legs back over the mattress, her hair sprawling out upon the silk pillow case beneath her head. Fiona's bosom rose and fell with each breath she inhaled, only to exhale once again, and her arms were crossed along her slim midriff, her fingers drumming against Fiona's stomach. So many hands had touched this abdomen, calloused hands… the hands of a thousand lovers. Hands that had left an imprint on Fiona's soul. She was a wanderer, living life to the fullest, but now, it was time to settle down. As Fiona laid on her bed, considering all of this, she was wondering which room in the Academy she would paint first with Marie Laveau's blood…