Monday, November 28, 2011

Book of Mirrors

~Book of Mirrors~
~Part One~
Today, on this cool and dark late August night, I will die. I will be killed in the usual way, by burning at the stake for my sin of being a witch. I ask myself, as I have done so many times in my short life: why? Why did I do this to myself? I could have easily revoked my blood line. I could have chosen never to take the oath. No one ever made me practice witchcraft. So…why? Why did I do it?
I suppose you could liken that to asking a squirrel why they chose to have a tail. They could pretend it doesn’t exist, they could tell people they were born without it, but what does it change? Down to the little animal’s core, they know what they are and what they have. And no amount of pretending will ever change that.
So I suppose that leads us to another question: why am I here? What have I done to deserve my early death?
I suppose it all began, my story that is, before I was even born. To tell my story, I have to tell the story of my family, and that all began with the marriage of Frances Rice and Leonard Green.
They didn’t have a big wedding, I have been told. Simple, quite, but pretty. They were the perfect couple for their time. Or so everyone assumed…
It was the same old story of the abusive husband, the subservient wife, and the pretty little middle class life they lived. She got pregnant with my Aunt, Karen. The story continued its common story, simply adding another person for him to abusive in private and smile at in public. Life was how it was meant to be, it was how fate saw their future.
And then she was born.
My mother, Mary, was a child never conceived. Mr. Green stopped having sex with his wife after Karen was born, as was common for their time. Sex was vulgar and barbaric, apparently. And so, when little Miss Francey Green was told of her pregnancy, she was righteously fearful, for two reasons. One, where had the baby come from? This was a time when oddities where explained with myths, superstitions, and regarded in fear. What she carried must be something evil, something horrible. This, of course, led her to her second fear. What would her loving husband think? Obviously, the child couldn’t be his. Therefore, she would either be accused of in with adultery, or be charged as a witch.
Either one was a death sentence for young Miss Francey.
Even through her fear, she knew she couldn’t hide her pregnancy. So, she trusted her husband and told him. He promptly attempted to beat the illegitimate child out of her. He almost killed her…almost. Something kept her from the brink of death, even when Mr. Green was certain he had killed her. After realizing his attempt at killing her had failed, Mr. Green became frightened and confused. No women could be that strong, surely!
And so Mr. Green came to the conclusion that his pathetic mess of a wife could be only one thing: a witch.
Miss Francey was locked up in a dark underground cellar to await her cruel fate, while Mr. Green conversed with the Church. Mr. Green wanted his wife dead as soon as possible, so that he may find another wife quickly. A young man with a young daughter and no wife was a blemish on society that no one would tolerate for long! Unfortunately for Mr. Green, but I suppose rather fortunate for the oddity growing inside of Miss Francey, the Church refused to kill an innocent, unborn child. Their ruling was simple: in 9 months, when the Thing was born, Miss Francey would die for her witchy sins.
And true to their word, they killed my grandmother not 10 minutes after she gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. My mother would have to grow up without the women who died for her to be born.
Mr. Green wanted nothing to do with the child, and so the Church sent her away. They named her Mary, for obvious reasons, and gave her to the orphanage in the next town over. Mary went without a middle or last name, due to her lack of any family. After all, a witch was by no means ever considered family.
The orphanage was small and dirty, packed with far too many children and far too little food. It was strictly for little girls, as the mixing of boys and girls was to be considered very vulgar. Each child was given one set of clothing; a simple grey dress, a frayed grey shawl, grey stockings with holes in them, and worn old grey shoes for the winter. Every Wednesday was wash day, when all the children would walk down to the creek behind the orphanage and wash their clothes. Each child was allowed one meal a day, which was given around noon. A small bowl filled with thin, watery oatmeal, and a glass of cloudy water. They slept in small rooms filled with rickety bunk-beds. It was cold at best, freezing at worst, but at least it was something.
There were very few children that would dare disobey the women in charge of the orphanage, for fear of being turned out. Mary was one of the few who got caught up in childhood excitement and did so many stupid things. She was a troublesome young thing, always causing someone grief, but everyone more or less liked her. She was just a likeable child, I suppose.
Mary was 17 when the orphanage burned down, which killed most everyone. The fire department or whatsoever they called it then, had much more important things to do than save a bunch of left behind kids. Mary survived, barely. She never was one to sleep at night, due to random bouts of insomnia, so she saw the signs of fire much quicker than the rest. For whatever reason, little Mary had always had an incredible fear of fire. Some said it was linked to her mother’s death, some said it was because she was a witch at heart, and some said it was because she was demon spawn. All of these were, of course, seen as completely ridiculous to Mary. Unfortunately, the fear was very real. She didn’t spare a single backwards glance to the many, many children and their horrible fate as she escaped from the burning building, saving only herself.
Mary was never one to regret her actions, no matter how foolish or cruel they were. The way she saw it: what was done was done, there was no sense in hopeless wishing.
She had never been outside of the orphanage, besides playing in the field behind it. She honestly didn’t even know what lay beyond the orphanage. Where was she to go?
She started running down the street, with no real goal in mind. At least she was moving; that was something. She made it a few blocks before someone stopped her, a very handsome someone dressed in very fine clothing.
He had dark hair and pale skin; his clothes made of the finest silk and edged in gold. His eyes were of the clearest, lightest blue. His smile was honest and full, tinged with amusement that most likely never left his face, and ringed with concern for the child who he had run into.
“Child, are you alright? You like rather frightened.”
My mother, scared senseless by the fire, barely managed an audible squeak in response. The man chuckled, obviously assuming she was some wayward farmer’s daughter or something of the sort.
“Why don’t you come with me, yes? I can get you some food and a nice bed, and then you can offer me some answers. Sound good?”
Mary, having never been in the presence of a man, had no idea how to judge honesty. Her decision was made quickly; she had no place to go, or any idea of what to do. So she nodded her head, and allowed the stranger to lead her back to his home.

Book of Mirrors
~Part Two~
His name was Philip, and that’s all she was told. He was a cruel man; always drunk, always abusive. He didn’t care who she was. Mary fell in love, against her conscience’s best wishes. I, being a young women who has yet to find love, have no idea why she would fall for a man who was so horrible, but she did. I suppose it’s a hereditary trait, one I’m glad I won’t have to worry about.
She lived with him in a small, drab, ugly little house somewhere on the outskirts of town. He couldn’t keep down a job, so he kept a meager living thriving off of robbery and thievery. She was happy, nonetheless. It was a step down from the orphanage, but a step up from living on the streets, so she didn’t complain.
And then something rather odd happened. She got pregnant, in the same fashion as her mother. Philip went away for a while, doing God knows what to earn money. He had been gone for about 6 months when Mary recognized the early signs of what couldn’t be possible. She laughed at her foolish thoughts, but remained concerned. Just to ease her mind, she visited the town midwife. The midwife did far from easy her mind, though.
Mary was pregnant with a child that she never conceived.
She knew her mother’s story, but had always just assumed her mother had slept with another man and was too cowardly to admit it. Though with this newfound knowledge, she had to wonder…had her mother really been a witch? And, if so, was she herself?
She had never committed to anything witchy, nor had she even given it much thought, but she did in fact carry witch blood. She knew there was no way she could hide her pregnancy, and Philip was due to come back home any day, so she did the only thing she could think to do. She ran.
She went to the only place that could possibly have someone who might understand. She went back to the house her mother once called home. She went to find her sister, Karen.
After spending a few days asking random people questions, she found the house my aunt currently lived in. It was quint, upper middle class. It was the picture of how life was supposed to be lived, a life Mary had been shut out from sense birth.
Nervously ringing the bell, millions of thoughts ran through her head. She had never met these people, what if they were horrible? What if she was wrong? What if they didn’t like her? What if they accused her of being a witch, and put her to death?
“Miss? Can I help you?” In the doorway, garbed in a white dress, pearls, and small white heels stood a beautiful woman. She had hair as dark as night, and eyes to match. Her lips where set in a curious but friendly smile, ruby red against her stark white skin. Not a wrinkle lined her face, though, by Mary’s calculations, she had to be at least 47.
“Uh, yes! Are you, perchance, Miss Karen Green?”
“Why, yes, I most certainly am. And you would be?”
“I…my name is Mary. No middle or last name graces me, for I have no family.” At my mother’s words, Karen’s smile froze in place. Her eyes registered shock, and a healthy amount of fear. There was no question to it; Karen most certainly knew who stood on her door step.
“Yes, yes, of course. I knew you would come eventually. I am sure you have many questions for me…would you come in?”

Book of Mirrors
~Part Three~
“So…Mother really was a witch?” In the span of perhaps an hour, Karen had filled my mother in completely on everything she had missed. To say Mary’s head was overloading was an understatement!
“Yes.” Karen responded with quick and precise words, adding just the faintest sharp edge to everything she said. She was all business, all the time.
“And she didn’t know about it?”
“So that means…I am a witch? And you, your one to?”
“Yes, we are both of witch blood. I myself have embraced Wicca.” At this, my aunt twisted around her hand to show Mary her wrist. Tattooed onto the skin was a simple pentagram, the mark of a witch.
“You don’t have to take this on, you know. You can turn away from your blood; you can turn it down. That child in you is the result of years of denying your blood informally. It is nature’s way of making sure your blood goes on, that it won’t die with you. If you wanted it to die with you, you would have had to formally renounce it. Sense you failed to do so; the child will absorb every ounce of your witch ability. The most you can do know is to follow the Wiccan religion. You will never be the powerful witch you were destined to be.” Karen’s face looked grim and sad. She truly thought Mary had come because she had realized her blood and had embraced it. She was disappointed that my mother had failed to figure it out on her own. By doing this, she would never be the sister Karen had pined for.
“I…don’t know what I will do. I have no wish to be a witch of any kind. I am perfectly happy with the life I live now. Your life and mine have nothing to do with each other, and I wish it to stay exactly that way.” The words were cruel, but it didn’t faze my aunt. She knew my mother was simply confused.
Mary stayed with Karen for the duration of her pregnancy, indulging in a lifestyle completely different from any she had ever known. Karen was the town’s wise women. She made her living making natural medicines and cures for the people, acting as the midwife occasionally, and offering words of wisdom to those who ask it. Something to the lifestyle seemed…honest. There was always food to eat; the house was always clean and warm. She had soft, sturdy clothes to wear. When she felt ill, Karen always had something to make her feel better. It was the kind of life Mary had always dreamed of. But it didn’t make her happy; it made her feel as though life was laughing at her choices.
Exactly 9 months after she had arrived at my aunt’s house, she gave birth to a pretty little baby girl. It was during the night that she gave birth, during the full moon’s peak. Karen declared that this baby was a lunar witch, and had potential to be a very powerful witch indeed. She asked Mary what she wanted to name her child.
“I…don’t care. She is your child, not mine. I didn’t ask for her, I didn’t want her. She isn’t mine.”
Without a single regret, my mother left me in the arms of my aunt. She didn’t even care enough to name me, her only child. She left that night, leaving me behind. She told Karen she was going back to where she belonged, with the man who loved her.


Hate. It warps me; taints me; makes me crazy. It swirls in my soul, a slimy black snake. It worms its way into my thoughts; my words; my love. It ruins happy moments. It hits me, again and again, leaving big craters that slowly eat their way bigger and bigger. Hate. It’s a disease. It spreads; with a word, a touch, a look. It spreads, and you don’t even have to do anything for it to contaminate everyone. Hate. All it lets you see is everything you ever did wrong, every person you ever hurt. Moments when you screwed up, they play in front of your eyes day in and day out, like some kind of perverse movie screening. Every new door that opens looks so small, you no longer even try to make it through. Hate. It stops you. You can’t move forward, you can’t think right, you can’t talk right; you can’t even breathe right. It’s the center of your whole universe. Ignoring it is like taking Advil; temporarily, you’re okay. But the pain…it always comes back. Hate. You can’t live with it. There’s no living without it. It’s always there; hiding underneath kind words, sneaking in shadows of great opportunities, echoed through every single thought that passes through your mind. It’s THERE. You can never, ever get rid of it. Praying only ticks it off, makes it strike harder. Medicine only helps it warp your mind; it makes you think you’re crazy…it makes you crazy. Hate. It’s not a part of your life…
It is your life.

The Moon

-- Here's the answer to my last piece: my inspiration :) haha --

The moon, a bloated white ball, hangs high in the sky, lazily lying next to the twinkling white stars, on a soft black blanket untainted by clouds. All that can be seen for miles are the stars, the moon, and the completely black sky.
I look down from the starry heavens, once again sighing in total peace and serenity as I take in the beautiful landscape that stretches around me. No matter what direction you look in it is all the exact same, endless green. Not a tree, mountain, hill, building, road, trail, car, bike, or anything to scar the endless green that paints the earth for miles and miles and endless miles.
I feel a light breeze touch my face, making my simple white dress gently swirl about my legs and my short black hair blow out of my face. The breeze smells clean and fresh, with the slightest hint of something exotic. Perhaps it is jasmine, or orange blossom, or maybe even ginger. That smooth undercurrent of something exotic stirs in my brain thoughts of faraway places, long skirts with jingling bells, violin music floating on warm air, and brightly coloured birds sitting silently atop oddly twisted trees.
Looking down, I watch a flower form in my hand. The spring green vine twines around my arm, forming an odd sort of bracelet. A pure white lily buds, slowly opening its soft petals onto my wrist. It is so beautiful, so perfect; it is almost surreal.
I look around, savoring this perfect moment. The endless green, the starry night sky, the full moon hanging above my head, and the dainty white lily; they make it all so perfect. I never want to leave this place, ever!
Nevertheless, I know I must. This place is safe, happy, and calm, but it is not where I belong. I have to leave; I have to wake up into the horribly quiet room. I have to answer the endlessly tedious questions, asked from careless doctors wearing fake smiles. I have to take the endless stream of medicine, tests, trials, and observations; and I have to be horribly nice during it all.
I do not want to follow this painful cycle, but what choice do I have? I used to want it, the tests and the questions and all of it. I knew it was to make me healthy again. The other me, the one that saw the demons and heard the monsters, she did not want it. However, I always knew that she was never to be listened to, that is what the doctors told me.
Lately, it has not been quiet so easy. I cannot tell anymore who is in charge! Is it the crazy me that wants to stay here forever, in an attempt to avoid the pains and boredom that has become my life? Alternatively, is it the sane me, the tiny me that struggles to survive despite everything, that wants to stay here so she can have a break from the crazy me?
Gosh, it is all so confusing…
I look about, suddenly alarmed at the fading of my perfect fairyland. The green, the black, the stars and the moon are all turning a dismal grey, as if blanketed by heavy clouds. All sight is washed away from my eyes, the ground dropping from beneath my feet.
“Katie, it’s time for your Thursday screening test.” The man in white stood in the doorway, emotionless and cold. It isn’t the test that bothers me, it isn’t the fact that I am not a human to him, only a thing to be studied and fixed, it is the coat that bothers me. Yes, it is the coat. They all wear that plain, white, stiff jacket. It makes everything even more painful. It makes everything uniform and normal around me. It is a daily reminder that I am not the one wearing a white coat. I am not the normal one.
I am the weird one.
I am the broken one.
I am the one controlled by demons that do not exist, ruled by monsters that only I see, annoyed by people that have never lived, and studied my doctors that do not care.
I am schizophrenia’s prisoner.

Who is He?

-- Got any idea what I'm talking about? Good luck figuring it out ;) --

He’s a dark, silent kind of guy. Just stands in the corners; he likes the shadows. I have never seen him out in broad day light; the sun must hurt his eyes. Or maybe he just prefers the dark? He sure wears a lot of it; long dark trench, black fedora, shiny black shoes. I wonder what his face looks like…I have never actually seen it. He keeps it hidden in the shadows all the time. I don’t believe I would be surprised if he just didn’t have a face.
He wouldn’t need one; it would be just a waste of space. He doesn’t see the world we live in, and he doesn’t need to. He doesn’t speak out loud; that would ruin the magic in it all. He pulls the pain, hate, and cruel sick death that I crave from dreams, memories, and thoughts. He doesn’t need to see it happen to know how. He doesn’t need to hear them talk about it to know why. He just…knows.
That used to scare me; knowing everything all the time, but I guess it’s just part of the job. He doesn’t care if he scares me or anyone else, his purpose isn’t to make me great of popular. He has only one objective: to continuously pull me to the edge, and make me stare out at what’s there. He pushes me into the darkness, and from that he calls forth light. And from that light he forms words. And those words are thoughts, feelings, actions; a story.
And that’s his job.

Peaceful, Happy, Bloody Life

Have you ever seen a child drenched in blood curse at his stuffed teddy bear? Have you ever heard a ghost’s terror-drenched scream as she relives her cruel, sudden death, over and over again? Have you ever felt warm, thick blood drip over your shoulders as you try vainly to tell yourself it isn’t real?
I have.
My life is surrounded by death, horror, fear. The things I see no human should ever have to see. Sick, twisted images that my mind fabricates and forces my eyes to watch. I am a helpless prisoner to the world’s most feared criminal.
I am my own prisoner.
I don’t really know when I became “a psycho”, as my dear daughter puts it. Ah, she does so love to hear my stories…she thinks I’m playing, you see. Alas, if only I were. I stray. I suppose I have always been in this particular mind set, only progressively spiraling downwards. I remember, even as an early child, waking from the most dreadful of nightmares. I believe it was not once, but twice that I asked my mother if I really had to live or not. I wonder how she took that…must have been rather startled, I suppose.
I myself have never given it much thought. I have always lived this way; I don’t know any other way to live, so I have nothing to miss or regret. Besides, they are rather pointless emotions. What’s regret going to get me? Surely the ghosts would laugh. The banshees would shriek in amusement. God only knows what the demons would think.
No, I do not suppose I wish to be normal. If I were normal, I fear I would be dreadfully boring. At least when I break down and scream my lungs out, I bring amusement to someone’s day.
I wonder whatever I would do if I were normal? What if I no longer had to ignore the blood pouring from my acquaintances’ eye sockets; the demons that howl at the moon and rip babies to bloody shreds; the people that shriek in pain as they melt at the bottom of my bowl of soup? Hmm…I suppose I would die of boredom.
I would much rather die of insanity.

Pretty Baby

“I did it. I killed my baby, and I don’t regret it. She deserved a worse death than I gave her.” Karla’s voice was strong and sure, though her words spoke volumes of her instability. The day was Thursday, December 23; a cold day, but was okay. Cold was okay. Karla sat curled up under a blanket against the plummeting temperatures. She could always just turn up the heat, but what was the point? Cold was good…cold was numbing. There could never be too much numbing in the world.
“She was a terrible child, you know. Always crying…always wanting something. If she wasn’t thirsty, she was hungry. If she wasn’t hungry, she needed to be changed. If she didn’t need that, it was something else…always something else. She even cried when she was tired! Noise, noise, noise, all the time! She deserved to die…she did.” Her voice cracked, as she began a deep, hacking coughing fit. Stupid cold whether…always making people sick. Why couldn’t it be summer again? No one likes cold weather. Warmth is always best; like a warm hug that melts away all the pain…
Karla sat up, to tame down the coughing fit with a tall glass of cold water. She like the cold…cold was good. Why couldn’t everything be cold? She reached up and undid the sparkly green hair pin, letting her raven black hair fall around her waist in gentle waves. Across the room, the tall mirror showed a pale face. She barely recognized the dull, flat grey eyes that sat deep into a pale, greying face. Had she always been that thin? Had her cheek bones always stuck out so far, making her look like a scrawny bird; was she really that ugly now?
It was the retched baby’s fault. Karla had a perfect life, until that monstrosity decided to invade her body. She was real pretty too, until she got fat. Funny…people had always flocked around her, loving who she was. And then, people gave her such dirty looks while she was pregnant. She was 16, she was pregnant; she just fell into the stereotype. Who she was before, none of that mattered. It didn’t matter who she was, only what she had done.
Truthfully, the brat wasn’t even her fault. Her cousin was to blame. He was the one that got drunk. He was the one that drugged her drink at the Halloween party last year. He was the one that raped her, out in the cold, dirty woods behind Grammy’s house. And he was the one that laughed and told everyone how crazy Karla was when she tried telling her parents. “Crazy Karla! She knocks herself up, and blames it on her COUSIN! Ha-ha!!”Everyone just assumed she was another stupid girl who made a few stupid mistakes.
Unfortunately, her dad wasn’t too keen on the idea of having a teen mom living under his roof. At first, he just tried beating the child out of her. Then he got sober, and realized how that would look to the neighbors. If his daughter died, people would talk; they wouldn’t say nice things. He certainly couldn’t ruin his perfect image! So he came up with a better plan. He decided to kick her out; a simple, easy, and cheap way to get rid of the nuisance and protect his image, all at once.
Sense then, Karla had been bouncing around homes a bit. For a while, she stayed with her friend Jacky. Then Jacky’s mom found out she was pregnant, and she didn’t want that kind of influence around her daughter. That’s pretty much how it all went; she would stay for a while with a friend, until the ‘rents kicked her out.
“It’s entirely all that brat’s fault…She was a horrible little thing! So ungrateful! I went through things no sixteen year old should have to go through; all to bring a little bundle of worthlessness into this world! And how was I repaid? The useless brat couldn’t even be healthy! Always crying…always crying! It never shut up! I told the thing I needed my meds…I told her I needed quite. I couldn’t afford my meds! She could have just shut up…but no! She just wouldn’t SHUT-UP!” She screamed and through her hair pin, shattering the mirror into a million tiny, glittering pieces. They feel to the ground, like so many glass tear drops.
The room was quite, save the sound of Karla’s labored breathing. She looked into the corner, at the small figure wrapped in a pink blanket. It didn’t move…it didn’t make a sound. For once in her short life, she was blissfully quiet.
Karla looked down at her bloody hands, for perhaps the 20th time that day.
“I had to kill her…she made me.”

I'm BACK!!

HELLOOO!!! Gosh, I completly abandoned blogger there for a while! Sure, I uploaded a few things here and there, but nothing like I used to! :P Well, I'm back! I decided unstead of putting just my poems, I would put my other writings too. So, here goes! Imma upload a whole bunch at one time, sense I have a whole bunch I have written. I mostly write short stories now, dwelling mainly in dark teen fiction :) I have written one longer story needs a lot of work...yeah. But I will upload that, even though it's a work in progress (it's called Normal). Just keep in mind, I'm still working on that one!!
Well, what's new with me?
Umm...I'm going to Europe this Summer :) I'm going with People to People, and I cannot WAIT!! XD Haha
I'm a sophmore now :) Yeah, almost outta highschool!! Can't wait! Love my school, and the crazy people in it (most of the time), but I can't wait to get out on my own! Duke University, here I come ;D haha
I'm a monotheistic Wiccan now. Yep, that's a pretty big change sense I started blogging here :) If ya want more info, check out my other blog which is kinda an online Book of Mirrors (or Shadows, whatever you choose to call it. Theres a difference, but I don't bother to explain it). I have been a Wiccan for about...3 months now. It seems like much longer! Haha, I recently converted, but it feels like I have always been a Wiccan :) I love it...when I was a Baptist, I was never one of those annoying religious people. But now...I kinda am :) I just...gahh, I love it!! XD lol
I'm single. Again. Haha, this time, imma stay single for a while :) I just don't feel the need to go through all the trouble again. I mean, I have never really fell in love before (lust, deffinately. Love? nope!), and I don't hold much merit in the chances of finding it. Besides, I have better things to do! :)
Still living with my grandparents...and hating every day of it. Oh, I guess I have never complained bout that on this blog. Well, I don't have the happiest of families...but I deal. I mean, only a couple more years untill I'm outta here :)
Well...yep! That's me :D Haha


Friday, November 11, 2011

My Lady Calls Me

My Lady Calls Me

Death is calling me;
Her sweet voice I cannot ignore.
She beckons me with one slender, pale finger
Adorned with The Moonstone ring.

She carries the knife
-with which to slice away my useless, broken body.
She holds the silver spoon
-with which to dig out my pure, white soul.
She stands upon the scales,
-with which She uses to test my worth.

Will I pass the test?
Will I be granted entrance into Her Home?

Death is calling me; She shall be kept waiting no more.