"Concentrate, Delia. You're letting your mind wander," Fiona snapped.
The sound of her mother's voice blurred her focus making it impossible to concentrate as she demanded. Her skin felt as if it were crawling under the scrutiny of her mother's gaze.
"It's all about intention—making the object do as you wish."
Cordelia nodded, her blonde locks bobbing up and down rapidly. She stared at the glass perched upon the stool in the backyard. Focus. You can do this. You can do this. The sound of her mother's foot tapping against the concrete filled her mind, the irregular staccato invading her thoughts. Don't think about her. Don't think about how important this is. Focus.
She tried to push her feelings of inadequacy to the back of her mind and attempted to focus solely on the glass. She pictured it flying across the yard and slamming into the gate, but the glass remained intimidatingly still. She swallowed hard, hoping for a strong swift breeze to give the illusion that her powers had finally surfaced. Maybe mother would be proud of me then.
Her mother huffed behind her. "I simply don't understand. This is your birthright, Cordelia."
How many times had she heard that? How many times had that phrase been used to belittle her? It was everything she aspired to be, was born to live up to, but lately it didn't seem as though she would ever fulfill her "destiny." Her mind had mulled over every possibility as to why she hadn't developed any powers. Maybe something was wrong with her. Maybe she had some kind of deformity or genetic affliction that was preventing her powers from surfacing. Maybe she was switched at birth. Or maybe she just didn't have any.
"I-I'm trying," she squinted slightly, biting her bottom lip in concentration.
Fiona rolled her eyes and took out her pack of cigarettes. Cordelia could hear her hitting the box and removing a cigarette. It was obvious that she was tired of the pathetic spectacle. The little girl wanted to cry, but she fought the urge. She would receive no pity for her tears.
"You know," Fiona muttered with the cigarette between her lips, "At five or six I could've hurled that glass all the way to Timbuktu if I'd wanted to." She flicked the lighter, taking a long drag and exhaling dramatically.
"I kept preparing myself for the day your magic would emerge. Every year I think, this, this is the year I need to worry about. But it never happens."
Cordelia dropped her shoulders, shuffling her feet uncomfortably.
"I thought surely by eight years old something would've surfaced by now," Fiona added flippantly.
In a desperate, last-ditch attempt she stretched her arm out a little farther, tears stinging in her eyes. You can do this.
Fiona laughed, amused at the child's attempts to culminate some form of magic from her tiny body. "I guess it's never going to happen. I have nothing to worry about. Maybe you're not a witch after all."
She took one last pull before flicking the cigarette onto the ground, stomping it out with her designer black pumps, and turning back to the house, leaving Cordelia standing all alone.
