One

"Everything will be okay, Bella."

"We'll always be here for you, Bella."

"We love you, Bella."

"We're so sorry for your loss, Bella."

On and on it goes, all day, one look of pity replacing the next — going on for so long, new characteristics don't even appear anymore. They all morph into a single face, one expression, the same glob of skin and eyes and hair and pity repeating themselves until everyone looks like the same single pound of flesh.

I think that's my aunt Liza standing by my cousin Gemma, poaching the cheese and crackers, but I can't for the life of me see any difference. Not between them or the priest or myself — when I look in the mirror.

The worst part is it's not like they've all transformed into some stranger. Nope, it's worse. Short orange-red hair atop everyone's scalps. Short eyebrows puckered on everyone's pale faces. Blue eyes darting about.

No, my mother wouldn't allow that. This is her wake after all and I guess she'd rather be damned then miss it. She always did love everyone looking at her, anyway. Damn Witch.

"We're so sorry for your loss, Bella." Alright.

"How are you feeling, Bella?" Like hammered shit dusted with ashes. Stop looking at me.

"Bella, just know, you're welcome in our home anytime. Promise." Thanks. You couldn't have made me feel like more of a stranger even if you tried.

I don't know how, but I managed to divert through the crowd and outside to sit on Renees' stoop and watch the neighborhood. Now that I've escaped those crying Harpies, I realize this is the first time I've been without company in two days. I smile and my heart feels lighter.

I recognize the Morgan family across the street, the heavy couple playing with their three girls.

None with red hair or blue eyes or a dancers arch to their backs. Just the Morgans.

I hate the Morgans, I'm pretty sure they're black Witches and murdered my dog, Biggie, when I was twelve, but I'm glad to see them.

"Kiddo?"

Hmpf.

It was nice while it lasted.

"Hey, Pops."

Charlie's bulky body eases down beside me with a creak of his knees, a groan of exhaustion, and a small gust of wind, which made the scent of his cologne waft towards me. Hmm, Old Spice and butter scotch.

Alright, this is nice, too.

"I heard your Auntie Liza tried to sing Hallelujah and your Uncle Tommy tackled her." Pops said, his gravely voice filled with restrained mirth, testing my mood.

A quick grin tugged at my lips without my permission.

"I didn't see, but I heard he also took Grams down too when she tried to spike the coffee urn." I reply.

Charlie chuckles deeply and swipes his hand across his dark, well groomed beard.

"I believe it — probably wanted to be the one to do the honors. Course that big lump of fried brain cells would probably end up spiking his flask with coffee instead and go around wonderin' why no one else is drunk." Charlie mocks with almost a giggle.

We look to one another, identical brown eyes filled with private laughter.

"Was y'alls al-co-hol defective?" We recite simultaneously, laughing loudly and freely.

"How ya doin', ya lil shit." Pops asks, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and pulling me in close to his body.

The day is hot and humid here in Phoenix, his body heat added is almost unbearable, moist spots forming where we touch, but it's just what I needed. And unlike those annoying leeches in Renees' house, after having a good laugh with my dad, I don't mind being asked how I'm doing, especially since now I can be honest.

"Glad that Witch is buried already so I can get outta here, you old fuck."

"Eh eh, now!" Charlie protests, looking hurt. " . . . It's unlucky to speak ill of the dead so soon," he winks.

"Bella!" I flinch, burrowing deeper into Pops' side. God that voice; that dead voice.

"Is it Aunt Liza?" I ask, my voice muffled.

"Yeah, can't you recognize her voice?"

I look up and into his eyes putting as much emphasis as I can into mine.

"No. I can't."

Of course he understands immediately, a silent 'oh' coming from him.

"Your mother would do that to you, wouldn't she?" He says sadly, understanding Renee left one last token of herself behind. A hexed house, just for me, so all I'll see when I enter will be her.

I regretfully nod with pursed lips.

"Don't let the old tramp get you down, baby, you ain't gotta stay here for much longer." Dad soothes.

"What happened to not speaking ill of the dead?" I ask, knocking his shoulder with my own, "And dad that house is filled with Witches, if they hear you call mom a tramp they'll be on your ass faster than a bullet."

He just laughs, "Oooh, I'm so scared of a bunch of sluts. And I don't appreciate you mocking my old war injury, little girl."

I roll my eyes — 'War injury' is what he calls it. What everyone else calls it, AKA the truth, is a dumbass who forgot to put the safety on and his finger off the trigger in cadet training. He tried to put his gun in the waistband of his jeans like a badass, but ended up shooting himself in the ass like an ass.

I shake my head trying not to grin again as he mumbles sluts under his breath.

Unfortunately for Witches, when they revealed themselves to the world, the slur that stuck to them the most was that of a whore; thanks in large part to the Catholic Church.

They made sure the world knew that the reason why a Witch was always depicted as riding a broom stick in pop culture, was because the broom represented the Devils dick.

You want to get under a Witches skin? Call her promiscuous. It doesn't really mean a ton or any sexual partners as it does for human women, just born worshiping Satan.

Untrue biblical propaganda but effec-tive when birthing discrimination and ignorance in the general populace.

"If they were human you would be," I giggle, "I've never bought your age old, 'Thank the good Lord I'm only paying child support for one brat.' "

Charlie just grins mischievously at me, his laugh lines deep and homely.

"Bella! Where are you?"

Hhhh.

"Alright, kiddo," Charlie humfps, patting me on the back, "let's get this over with, but remember, even though I'll look like her, it's me. Here, keep ahold of my hand, and remind yourself all you need to, it's me."

I smile up at Charlie, and kiss his cheek, his coarse beard scratching my lips comfortably.

"Thanks. Alright, let's get this over with."

We stand together, my small hand in his large, calloused one and enter Renees' house.

I don't look to my Pops as his hand shifts and melds until it's only slightly larger than mine and less wrinkled with long acrylic nails that bite into my flesh.

"It's still me, Bells." Renees' falsetto voice says calmly.

"I know."

And I really do. But still, I don't look.

AN: I have the next three chapters of this story already written out and will probably post again next Friday, I'm awful about posting regularly, but I'm going to try at least once a week, that being said since I have a few pre-written chapters ready to go if a lot of people review I'll update sooner. Please review!