Slaughter, spells, and sweets, part 2: in 10 seconds

1104 words

Rated PG; gun violence, brief mild language

Note: this is the second part of a story. Yep, I actually managed to update it.

10

When I was sixteen, my friend gave me a sweater for my birthday. It was pretty, with stripes. I loved it, and wore it every day. It was two sizes too big, but a quick spell fixed that. It fit perfectly, and my friend was happy to see I was interested in it.

Unfortunately, this meant that my friend bought me all articles of clothing in that size, until I said I lost weight. She was a bit confused how I managed to do it so quickly, but just shrugged and bought me clothes with the right proportions from that moment forward.

I am wearing both the sweater and her initial expression of bewilderment as I watch the magic leak out of me. Don has left me in this impossible situation, with nothing to do but watch myself die. Who will look after my children? How will they find out about my death?”

But I notice something shiny a few feet from me. Don might have dropped it in his excitement to leech the power from unsuspecting spellers, and use it for his own entertainment. But what did he accidentally leave behind? And how will it help me live to see another day?

9

Don has known about magic for 10 years, as he told me. He found out when he had the blood of one of his patients tested. Clark Daron. It is a ridiculous move. Only go to speller doctors, to be on the safe side.

A witch is born with a magic percentile. This simply means how much of a person’s blood is purely magical energy. The more magic you have, the more power you have, but the more you need to eat and drink to contain it.

The average magic percentile is 23%. A magic percentile is quite genetic, and dominant. If you have a low magic percentile, odds are your offspring will too, and vice versa.

A magic percentile is measured with a quick spell when the person is born. My family has had low magic for centuries, until my great-uncle Arnold came around. I never met him, but he had a taste for adventure and getting in messy situations he needed to be bailed out of. And, most importantly, a magic percentile of 46%.

Practically half his blood was unchained magic. It had an affect on his personality. It’s known in the witch community as MAD, or magical abundance disorder. It contributed to his spontaneous lifestyle. The mental illness is also quite genetic.

I was born with a magic percentile of 35%, which is still incredibly high. So far, I’ve shown no signs of MAD or malnutrition. I am a prime specimen. Precisely why I was perfect for Don.

I reach out as an orange whirlpool forms around me. I stretch out my hand for the shiny thing, but I can’t reach it. Of course I can’t. 

8

My hand is so close to closing around the object. But it isn’t. I will have to find another way. Don is probably standing on the stage watching the life drain from the spellers. Their magical energy will protect them. But, the unnaturals, the ones without magic, will have no chance. 

Magic has always been a big part of my family for generations. Unnaturals were to be observed for their interest. How could someone be born without magic? Back in the witch-hunting days, we thought that God had punished them by taking away their powers.

In our world, living with a complete lack of magic is equal to living without a vital organ. Imagine someone being here without their lungs. What a peculiarity. It wasn’t for a long time that we found out the spellers were actually the “normal” ones. 

What a surprise it was for spellers when we were hunted for bewitching and manipulating unsuspecting villagers. Did we do anything? No, don’t be ridiculous. The big secret is that there never was a witch. Men would have small inconveniences, like trip over a rock or getting kicked in the face by a horse. Next, they’d blame it on the “witchy” characters around town. One thing leads to another, and burning people alive is a thing.

I reach out my foot to the sparkling thing. The heel of my shoes touches it, and I kick it towards my weakening form. What do we have here?

7

It’s a gun, I realize as I grip the object. Don was going to use this at one point or another, to end a life or send a message. Maybe, now, I can use it to save some. 

I hear him laughing, and notice something important. A crack in the velvet veil of the curtain I'm losing my life in. In the slice of light, I see a figure pacing back and forth. Coattails swish with each motion. Don. 

6

My hand is struggling to lift the silver revolver. Why did Don get this? It’s so heavy, and the bullet chamber is so bulky--though I may just be exaggerating in my delirium. I lift it above my head, and will my shaky hands to still. Please.

5

I hear the screams as the spells are being taken from the crowd. From the children. They make it hard to focus, and my vision goes blurry. It’s like they don’t want me to save them. Maybe they do want to die because of a weird cookie spell.

4

I packed away the cookies with my children last night. Cody wanted to try one, and almost snuck a bit while I was in the washroom. I zapped it out of his hands with a strike of lightning. He screamed as the sweet exploded into rainbow confetti.

“These cookies have alcohol in them.” I lied, holding my son. “A lot of alcohol. Not for kids, alright?”

He nodded into my shoulder. “Okay, Mom.”

3

I put my index finger on the trigger. In a wavering motion, I pull it. 

2

Don keels over. He’s not dead. I may have aimed for his heart, but I hit his shoulder. It doesn’t matter. His eye contact with the crowd is broken. They will be alright. Hopefully.

1

I lie on my back. The orange tornado is still choking me. I watch as the swirls move at supersonic speed along my limbs and face. The spell is not broken. Just weakened. And I’m going to have to get the hell up if I want to live, even a little bit. I groan as I try to get up, and fall back on the floor. Not the best start.