Magic runs in my family in varying degrees just like heart disease, bad decisions, and craziness. Personally, I think the craziness is just a side effect of everything else, but my mother never agreed.
“It’s the curse of our blood,” she would say, head angled high so she could stare down her nose at the very thought that one of the four family traits was anything less than a full blown attribute to be prized.
Craziness settled into my mother at an early age. That’s my theory and it’s yet to be disproved.
Anyway, back to the magic. I’m a late bloomer with it. My cousins were casting spells by the time they were ten, making toads pop out of toasters, levitating buckets of water over unsuspecting victims, turning chocolate milk into something I’m not gonna name because that was just too fucking traumatic, etc.
Don’t get me wrong, I tried to cast when I was their age. I gave myself headaches and nosebleeds for over a month one summer, fed up with the pranks and snide comments about my weak genetics. Nothing more came of it than a general wooziness and a sense of shame and anger that led me to my most epic display of crazy: throwing all of my cousins’ favorite clothes, diaries, and baseball memorabilia onto a bonfire. Then I glued all their porn stash materials to the outside of the house. If the bonfire incident taught me anything, other than the immense satisfaction of petty revenge, it was that I could take comfort in the fact I was probably not adopted, because crazy like that is something you tend to inherit.
Then I left. I caught the midnight bus to California, ran out of money by Kansas, and got a couple of jobs.
So here I am, a couple years down the road and legally an adult. I work at a shitty diner flipping burgers and refraining from poisoning the general populace. I still try to practice spells in my off hours, just on the chance a spark will catch, which is what brings us to Saturday night. I tried to do a spell and, well, it sort of worked.
Except now there’s an unconscious dude in my tiny cockroach castle because he appeared in a flash of blue smoke and I might have hit him over the head with a baseball bat. On closer inspection, the dude turns out to be Rafe Madison, semi-regular diner patron who never smiles and only orders his coffee bitter black with a side of plain eggs and toast.
Continue reading “Abraca-WTF: A Useless Witch, Part 1”