He had been slated to die - and even if I hadn't seen it, he had told me that very thing himself.
But he was not supposed to die like that. I hadn’t liked Arlo, but I had come to terms with the fact that he and Dimitri would have time to say their goodbyes - that I could somehow help Dimitri by easing him into the acceptance of it all. Instead, I was offering sex in lieu of comfort, because his grief was raw and raging, making the cool, calculated man volatile.
Or perhaps he had always been volatile - I had only known him for a couple of weeks, and so naturally there were bound to be things about him I didn’t know - didn’t like.
My thoughts circled, around and around, until the feeling of my own skin seemed suffocating somehow - restricting, even.
I couldn’t sit in solitude for a moment longer.
I pushed up from my chair and moved, my feet guiding me in the direction that my heart longed for, but my mind seemed to struggle to catch up. This grief-ridden experience had left me holding my breath, as if I were submerged in the waters of sorrow itself, terrified to swallow the pain of it all into the depths of my belly. And so I waded, here and yet not. Physically present, but living in the perpetual cycle of second-guessing - of doubting - of wondering.
I hated being this girl, and not for the first time in my life I wondered what normal felt like - if it were simply a cloak one wore, or if it was an elusive feeling, and if that feeling stemmed from the very notion of acceptance - belonging, even. Perhaps I never felt normal because I never truly belonged. For a Witch born to the bloodline that linked them to the women of Salem itself were deemed entirely normal amongst their family, and people. An image of Brenna flashed in mind, her auburn locks bright and blinding - her personality abrupt and at times cruel - her conviction strong.
I had never been accepted because my mother strove for the impossible - I could never be an Aria O’Luc, or anyone like her for that matter.
I blinked, my feet hesitating on the dark gray mat below, and it took me a moment for my sluggish thoughts to catch up and acknowledge that I was standing before the shower.
Water soothed and beckoned me, and it took me only a few minutes to strip down and step beneath the shower of droplets as I weaved my fingers through the stream, the patterns dancing against my fingers and palms.
The bar of coarse salt grated rough and uneven against my skin, and still I rubbed my body raw, ridding myself of any residual energy that clung to my skin, envisioning such filth spiraling down the drain.
Because Magick was always about intention - it was why those whoo hoo positive thought books and seminars somewhat worked. A thread of truth lay in all things. I whispered incantations beneath my breath, promising myself clarity as my hands shifted, creating patterns in the water - as if the movement solidified my commitment - my truth. As I crossed my arms above my head, I swayed beneath the stream of water, flicking droplets of that life source off my fingertips.
Not everyone connected with one specific element - not everyone worked alongside a deity - and not everyone had a Demon summoner of old knocking at their door.
It felt… calculated, aligned, even. As if the gods of old themselves were pushing these various threads, combining them at one common source, and right now that source was me.
I lathered shampoo into my hair, allowing my fingers to work my scalp as my mind drifted towards the family dinner, and all the things I should do for it - could do.