Then, there was just blackness. A sheer, undulating darkness that seemed to swallow you up inside. Was there even an inside left of what she was? She—What did she used to be? Suddenly, a thousand little pieces of bright, glimmering light floated around her. What were they? She attempted to reach out, but instead of her moving forward, it seemed the pieces moved towards her. She stepped inside and found herself within a
She was suddenly within an abandoned greenhouse, where rain was hitting the window. Plants flourished everywhere, but none seemed to be from a place that was closeby—but then again, how could she know? It was a jungle of exotic beauty as vines hung from pillars, flowers of all colors and assortments burst forth from cracks in the sidewalk, and birds seemed to have holed up huge nests in the corners of the building. It was wild, raw, and yet, She appreciated it. She had been here before. It was home. The warm, soft strings of tea lights hung overhead through the rafters created a cozy atmosphere. It was clear, this place had something the world no longer seemed to possess: life.
And there, nestled amongst the densest of trees, was a chestnut-haired young girl—beautiful, of course—who was bent studiously over a large book, seemingly studying the dense text. A firm crease was chiseled into her brow as she bit down on the top of her pencil's eraser. Her mother hated when she did that. It's disgusting. Her mother would scold her, before sending her a "you're enternally scorned" face her with that wicked look of hers. The young woman pulled the pencil from her mouth, and smirked at the thought of her mother's words
"How's the Latin going?" A voice called from the outreaches of the room, before another young girl with mad curls entered the greenhouse. The chestnut-haired girl looked up to see the other girl enter and an annoyed look came across her face.
"Unbearable. Why do the elders think 'Latin' should still be a thing? It's a 3,000 year old language—anything older than a thousand years should probably just accept that it's kind of outdated." She admitted to her friend. Yeah, they had been friends for nearly their entire lives. They knew each other better than anyone else.
The curly-haired girl was laughing at her. "I don't know, Davina—tradition?"
"Okay, yes, Monique, I get it—it's 'traditional.' But so is misogyny, and no one's particularly excited about that one." Davina closed the massive tome, seemingly finished for the night.
As Monique began to double-over in laughter, Davina offered a brief, but genuine smile. "It's true," she said as she grabbed her bag that was beside her on the chair, swinging it across her shoulder. "Tradition isn't everything—they're bound to die out sometime."
"But I think it's a bit different with us," Monique told her friend with an entertained smile. "After all, there's no other witches on earth, like us."
Davina gave a half shrug as they began to walk out of the greenhouse—the lights strung overhead slowly blackened as they passed beneath them. "I don't know, I think everyone thinks of themselves as special…that's why we have to rely on tradition—it sets apart… But really, I think we all just want to seem special enough that we're not ordinary."
"I was with you until you started sounding like Dr. Phil…"
And then it was gone. She found herself in the darkness once more. The pocket of light She had just stepped out of seemed to be pulsing with its own heartbeat, it almost felt like it was tangible, graspable. She could take it—use it to piece together whatever this was. But, in a flash of radiant, iridescent light, it was gone. The piece of whatever had been there had disappeared. And somehow, though She couldn't remember it, She knew it had been relevant. It had been a lost part of something…
If only she could remember…