Vendetta

I rummaged through the remainders of dusty candles and what looked like vintage household items inside of a rather sturdy ‘treasure’ chest. I had to move quickly in a way no one would notice me going in or out of this ratchet enclosure, which made it very difficult for me as my senses were interrupted by the constant filth - the place reeked of dead animals and grime. I had heard stories of my ancestors coming here to perform rituals, then being brutally murdered by the hands of commonwealth, burnt at the stake, sliced open, and stabbed in the name of protecting the civilians from witchcraft. 

The corner of something sharp had taken a poke at my palm, catching my eye. I slowly lifted it up from the surrounding objects. My finger dragged itself along the book, creating a single streak of visibility amongst the dusty slate. 

This was it. I found it. 

I swung the book into my satchel and lifted the flap to button it up and secure the contents inside. I was going to bring her back. I was going to set her free. 

My family was not evil, they were not ‘malicious witches’ and they did not perform any harm. For decades, centuries, we have had to put up with the hypocrisy of the same peers who wouldn’t hesitate to beg for our services if they needed a ritualistic ceremony themselves. But unless that was the case, we were seen as useless and uncivilized. We were objectified, and stripped to solely the physical traits they feared - not our intentions, not our love, kindness, and responsibilities. They used fear as a justification for being ruthless killers. And now, my parents finally had to pay that price. We are wizards, holders of magic, beauty, and all we have done is spread love which was and has only continued to be returned with violence.  

Gripping onto my satchel, I swiftly lifted myself off the creaky wooden tiles. Taking a breath, I prepared myself for whatever was to come, and I sprinted out of the place, not a care about the loud bang of the door shutting behind me. I ran and ran and ran until I caught sight of my home, or whatever was left of it. It was burnt to ashes down to the very last nail. All because my mother was a holder of magic, and my father married her knowing him being a commoner was apparently too problematic for the rest of the kingdom - as if we don’t have bigger issues. My mother didn’t do anything. Neither did my father. They did no wrong. They were simply just a family like everyone else, they were the bridge of hope between the two worlds. Now, that bridge is destroyed; and I don’t intend on continuing another generation where people like me put up with the same disrespect and still spew out blood sweat and tears for the people who burn us down the second we have finished being of use. It’s not our magic, our spells, or our books that are a threat. It is their fear that holds us all behind, their fear that is so dangerous.

Ironic was the fact that just in order to get to my house I had passed a beautiful garden, a farm full of fresh crops and trees, all possible because people like me, holders of magic, had made the gesture of enchanting the dead grass. People are no longer starving because of our spells, only one of many examples why we don‘t deserve our decided fate. 

I looked at the ashes of my house in disbelief. A shame that I had survived when my family had not. My knees fell to the ground as I felt my throat crack. Dropping my satchel, I grabbed the book and wasted no time. I did not hesitate, flipping continuously through the pages. It was a heavy book considering it was one of the only ones ever made to have spells of dark magic. Evil spells. Aside from the debris from rotting inside a chest for centuries on end, I could tell the book was untouched, barely used at all. The pages were perfect, the book had no creasing, and the ink was firmly carved into the thick papyrus. I doubt any of these spells were ever even considered for casting, especially since holders of magic were not evil. They had no purpose with this book, no intention of ever using it - which would explain why it was thrown into some old wooden box locked up inside an empty attic. I had heard from my mother that very few people had actually known about the existence of the book at all, let alone the location of the attic. The place was usually reserved for the most prestigious holders of magic for only the highest importance of conversation. My mother’s parents were a part of the group, but she never was able to attend any secretive meetings after becoming a target due to marrying my father. The rest of her family had to avoid any casualties, and protect her. To do so we would only ever use the attic if we had to hide, we restricted contact with fellow holders of magic, family, or anyone outside of a simple circle to avoid tension. That’s all we were expected to do. simply keep waiting for a change to happen, a change we knew wouldn’t. Not unless we made a difference. 

The book smelled of old fragrance, a scent my mother used to have on her gowns - the ones passed down to her. Now, they were no longer gowns. Now, they were just another pile of ashes somewhere in the remains of my home. Thoughts like these kept eating me inside my head, I could feel my emotions spiraling into confusion until it came to a sudden stop. I had found the page. The writing was clear, the images were simple, and the page was rough. It scraped like a chalkboard as I dragged my fingernails across the printed words. 

The ritual. I had finally found the guide to the ceremony that would bring my mother back, set her free from the realm beyond the heavens. 

Dipping my arm inside my satchel, I pulled out the second thing I had inside. A small cocoon. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath out and crushed it with my bare palms. The blood trickled down my sleeve and I could feel the stickiness on my hands. I felt sick. But knowing I had no time to waste, I grasped open my palms and ripped my fingers apart from each other. Using the blood on each one, I traced over the drawings on the book, carefully chanting the spell, pronouncing each syllable and filling in every swirl and line on the page. I repeated the spell another two times, then taking a deep breath, I stared directly down at the blood-traced circle - surrounded by intricate slashes of engravings I had filled with blood. 

This is what I have to do. This is my job. I reminded myself.

The ink sparked a small glow around the writing and along the drawings. It glistened even more in the sunlight.

It’s happening. It’s working. She's going to be set free. I'm going to set her free.

The cocoon I had crushed started mending itself back together, the web-like structure elongating itself as it grew and grew. The cocoon was reforming, but bigger. Much bigger. Once the strings of the cocoon tightly attached themselves together, a small crack broke through the hardened solute. A chunk from the middle peeled off, almost like a door being pushed down. And there she was, sitting inside. A rather small woman, with long, matte black hair and dull amber eyes - settled in a simple white nightgown. Quietly, confused, and almost in a state of shock.

M-Mom?