headwitchbitch

[headwitchbitch]

Fiona Goode being Fiona Goode

[headwitchbitch]

"I made you die those little deaths for the first time in your sorry life. I made you sing when you had no tunes left in you."

[headwitchbitch]

Jesus H Christ. Fiona couldn't find the god damn light switch to save her own ass, but she older woman stopped dead in her tracks as soon as she heard the acerbic tone--words dripping with distaste--resonate from the bed that was located on the other side of the room. Of all things that could have happened, Fiona wasn't counting on Cordelia to rouse from her slumber. Fiona hadn't made that much noise, but her Delia was a light sleeper. She always had been, even as a child.

"I just..." For the first time in quite a while, Fiona found herself to be at a loss for words. Ordinarily, she was animated, and willing to socialize with others... when it benefited her, of course. But now, standing in place, Fiona's arms plastered against her sides as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, she couldn't seem to formulate a proper answer to her daughter's question; one that continued to hang in the air, unanswered...

Briefly, Fiona heard a sharp intake of air from across the room. Cordelia was growing frustrated with her mother. Both women knew it, but neither of them chose to comment on the strangeness of this situation. It almost felt... right, for lack of a better word. In the silence that lingered between the women, so many unspoken questions were answered. It was then, that Fiona realized, that she didn't have a reason to interrupt her daughter's slumber. 

... Well, there was a reason. But Cordelia would have laughed in her mother's face had Fiona told the truth. So, Fiona went for the next best thing, and resorted to the tactic that she was most familiar with... lying.

"I just wanted to check on you." ... It wasn't entirely a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth, either. 

Death twitches my ear. “Live,” he says, “I am coming.” ― Virgil Publius Vergilius Maro

Fiona certainly felt that her death was approaching—sooner than she would have hoped—but there was nothing that she could do about it. She was exhausted, her limbs heavy, almost as if they were anchors,…

[headwitchbitch]

The Progeny || Fiona & Cordelia

I can name the exact sounds a house makes when it crumbles, down to each moaning floorboard. I found out one day, by accident, when we were tearing down the walls in the kitchen to make room for cabinets. All hammers and nails and screeching drywall, dust from the ceiling falling on your back like snow. I almost remember how we got here. How one morning I looked at you and did not recognize you over my coffee. Somehow, overnight, inexplicably, your face had become a reminder for the things I no longer had.

We couldn't agree on a paint color for the cabinets. You never liked blue until now. There were so many things hidden. That phone call with your mother, where you asked her what she thought about me and she said, “I don’t know, honey.” That time I was home alone and took a bath and touched myself solely for myself. My moans coming out of the drywall like ghosts because I love my own blood. How it sings.

And I don’t know if you heard what I heard, when everything crashed to the ground like a sinner to his knees, but it was all there. Every quiet moment, when we thought we were alone. When we thought the hallways were aching with us. Your mother’s tight-lipped smile whispering through the vents, “You can do better. I’m sorry, but you can.”

Everyone else’s tongues are in our walls. I think sometimes that everything is about loneliness. How we bump into it. Sacrifice for it. Leave our families for the taste of it. Maybe that’s what was behind the wallpaper in the bedroom, all rotting and quiet. But we were young, so we looked the other way.

People always say that it hurts at night and apparently screaming into your pillow at 3am is the romantic equivalent of being heartbroken.

But sometimes, it’s 9am on a Tuesday morning, and you’re standing at the kitchen bench waiting for the toast to pop up, and the smell of dusty sunlight and earl gray tea makes you miss him so much, you don’t know what to do with your hands.

Fiona had experienced her first heartbreak at the age of fifteen. She was young, she was foolish, she thought she was in love. This was way back when, when Fiona's soul was probably still intact, when she used to feel so many emotions. Thinking back now, rampaging hormones were probably at fault for the profound emotions that surged through Fiona's arteries like a raging inferno. It was quite possible that Fiona had never been in possession of a soul. Fiona was water. Her first boyfriend was the drop of ink that descended into her glass. They changed each other. One for the better, one for the worse... Even at that age, Fiona's heart longed for roots, but her mind wanted wings. She couldn't bear to listen to their arguments any longer. From early on, she'd been an indecisive girl. She knew what she wanted. Fiona knew how to manipulate people into doing what she wanted. Fiona was wily, she always had been. She'd emerged from her mother's womb with a thirst for vengeance and brutality. Through heartache, Fiona learned that it wasn't wise to find sanctuary in anyone other than herself. She'd grown strong early on in life... immune to the ways of the world... insusceptible to vulnerability. 

If that was the case, what the hell happened to Fiona between the age of 15 and now? Fiona was sentimental now. She was becoming a victim of regret. 

How do you regret one of the best nights of your entire life? You don't. You remember every word, every look. Even when it hurts, you still remember.

How can you regret your own child... yet, in that same breath, confess your love for her in an expression that puts all words to shame? When Fiona glanced at her daughter, her beautiful little girl, in spite of being a grown woman, she saw everything that was never supposed to be... but the one thing that Fiona was most proud of. 

I do not love; I do not love anybody except myself. That is a rather shocking thing to admit. I have none of the selfless love of my mother. I have none of the plodding, practical love. . . . . I am, to be blunt and concise, in love only with myself, my puny being with its small inadequate breasts and meager, thin talents. I am capable of affection for those who reflect my own world. — Sylvia Plath

Becoming a mother is a strange thing, to say the least. You can fight with your child all you'd like. You can curse your child's name and wish, in the back of your mind, that you'd never become their mother. You can despise your child. You can have a strained relationship with your child, as Fiona did with Cordelia... but at the end of the day, when the pieces have fallen into place and all is said and done, in spite of the complicated relationship that you have with your child... you will protect them. Hell or high water, you will fight for your child. The moment you stop showing affection... any sort of affection, even perplexing affection,  is the moment you stop being a mother... and become a monster. Cordelia looked at Fiona like she was some sort of savage. She viewed Fiona in a light that the older woman would never come to understand. They had their arguments, Fiona would grant Delia that... but no words uttered from Fiona's lips have ever been intended to be hurtful in their nature. Whereas most mothers slapped their children on the wrist as punishment, Fiona slapped Cordelia across the face. She would spit words of such rage and hatred in her daughter's direction, but Fiona was nothing if not sincere. 

Fiona was a complicated woman. Cordelia had her number. The two women had been playing this game for so many years, but beneath all the disgust... the loathing... the mutilation... she knew that her mother loved her. Fiona wasn't able to express love. Christ, she didn't even celebrate her kid's birthday. Fiona hadn't engaged in such a trivial act of kindness--appreciation for her beautiful Delia--ever since she'd been a little girl. In those days, Delia had gotten the most lavish of gifts. She was looked upon my strangers, eager to take a peek at the Supreme's one and only daughter, if only for one time... Celebrities... Kings... Queens... Cordelia could have chosen to rule the world. Instead, she'd landed herself in this shithole Academy, and would remain so, probably until the day she died. 

If the girl kept it up... she'd see that day sooner than she was hoping for. 

I once knew a man who was heir to the throne of a great kingdom, he lived as a ranger and fought his destiny to sit on a throne but in his blood he was a king. I also knew a man who was the king of a small kingdom, it was very small and his throne very humble but he and his people were all brave and worthy conquerors. And I knew a man who sat on a magnificent throne of a big and majestic kingdom, but he was not a king at all, he was only a cowardly steward. If you are the king of a great kingdom, you will always be the only king though you live in the bushes. If you are the king of a small kingdom, you can lead your people in worth and honor and together conquer anything. And if you are not a king, though you sit on the king’s throne and drape yourself in many fine robes of silk and velvet, you are still not the king and you will never be one.

It is a shame, really... that the daughter of the Supreme, the Queen of witches, grew up to be nothing more than a peasant chasing after a simple life and a husband that wasn't worth a damn. Cordelia may have inherited Fiona's good looks, but the girl didn't possess any detectable intelligence, nor did she have a sense of humor. Jesus Christ. Where did Fiona go wrong? What the hell happened to her daughter? Of all mothers in the world, Fiona should have given birth to the progeny.

... But that was just another check on Fiona's list of regrets. And it was all Fiona's fault, too. 

I guess you shouldn't trust your tongue when your heart is bitter.

[headwitchbitch]

Less Than Reliable || Fiona & Madeline

The difference between my darkness and your darkness, is that I can look at my own badness in the face and accept its existence while you are busy covering your mirror with a white linen sheet. The difference between my sins and your sins is that, when I sin, I know I'm sinning, while you have actually fallen prey to your own fabricated illusions. I am a siren, a mermaid; I know that I am beautiful while basking on the ocean's waves and I know that I can eat flesh and bones at the bottom of the sea. You are a white witch, a wizard; your spells are manipulations and your cauldron from hell, yet you wrap yourself in white and wear a silver wig.

Witches don’t look like anything. Witches are. Witches do.

Fiona's voice, once stern and confident, was now fading into more of an echo, descending down into the rabbit hole, just as Alice had done in Wonderland. Fiona could have started fires with the rage that was simmering inside of her tortured soul--misconceived, but also sinister--but she thought better of it. Today was not the day. There was a sliver of doubt in her thoughts pertaining to that statement, uttered in confidence... but she would not back down. Fiona possessed the poise of a Queen, determined to lead her soldiers down the right path and emerge victorious in the war... but Fiona didn't have any soldiers willing to fight her battles; none that mattered, anyhow. Fiona had friends... but they weren't lifelong friends. Half of them spoke to Fiona out of fear. The other half were merely sticking around to see Fiona fall upon her knees, and that moment was approaching sooner than Fiona would have hoped for. Her health was declining quickly.

Was Fiona scared... or was she not ready to go just yet? There was a difference. Whether she was sober or drunk, it was always the same thing... always the same game. Fiona had this... authentic magnetism about her. When she spoke, people listened. Unfortunately, she found that following her own advice was easier said than done. 

Even a witch wants sympathy.

Jesus, she was in pain... Her whole life, Fiona had waltzed around, looking down upon the individuals encompassing her. And now, after all had been said and done, she was alone. She had no one, absolutely no one. Hell, her own daughter despised her. She wanted nothing more than to see her mother burn at the stake. Then again, most people did, but they didn't have the nerve that Cordelia possessed. At first, Fiona's daughter may have appeared to be meek and mild... timid, almost. But, when provoked, just enough to the point where Cordelia had, had her fill... she was most certainly Fiona's child. Whereas it didn't take much to set Fiona off, Cordelia was a bit more... complicated, for lack of a better word. She would endure the abuse she received on a daily basis to an extent, but when Cordelia had reached her limit, the world knew it--and suffered the consequences. 

Some say there is history between souls. While Fiona was madness and sanity... hell, but paradise, her daughter was the exact opposite. Cordelia's eyes always gave her intentions away... that is... before the accident, not so much anymore. Fiona had watched--in awe, and also, almost... pride--as her daughter hardened, and finally, finally, realized her worth. Christ knew she couldn't have done it without a push from Fiona. It wasn't entirely encouraging... but it got the job done, nevertheless. 

It was one thing to make a mistake; it was another thing to keep making it. I knew what happened when you let yourself get close to someone, when you started to believe they loved you: you'd be disappointed. Depend on someone, and you might as well admit you're going to be crushed, because when you really needed them, they wouldn't be there. Either that, or you'd confide in them and you added to their problems. All you ever really had was yourself, and that sort of sucked if you were less than reliable.

Fiona had lived her entire life being unreliable. She constantly broke promises, and was a disappointment to everyone around her, but she cared little... but that was back then. Now, Fiona was still unreliable... but trying, and that had to count for something, if only a sliver of decency. For a woman that didn't have a soul, Fiona was either one hell of an actress, or making progress. She desperately wanted to choose the latter. She'd never wanted to die an old woman, and now, a loathed old woman. 

Fiona supposed it was time to start befriending--using the term loosely--some people in this god damn house, if she had any chance of surviving this cancer at all... and she would start with Madeline... 

[headwitchbitch]

The Beauty in Her || Fiona & Open

Death never comes at the right time, despite what mortals believe. Death always comes like a thief. 

Fiona's life was about to be snatched right before her eyes, the rug that was settled beneath her pampered feet about to be pulled from beneath her. She could feel her demise approaching. Death was felt in Fiona's bones, sort of like... that feeling you experience on your birthday. In just a blink of an eye, your life is over. You start off at a young age, and then... overnight, it seems, you age. Your limbs grow feeble. Your memory deteriorates. Your health declines. You experience your own carnage, and how it feels to succumb to it. Birthdays are usually a pleasant thing. People celebrate birthdays for one reason, and one reason only... to pride themselves for surviving against every odd that had been placed before them. Birthdays are pleasant, but birthdays are disheartening. The moment you begin to age, is the moment that you lose your youth. Youth is very much wasted on the young. It is taken for granted, tossed away as if it is an ugly Christmas sweater. The youthful have a nasty habit of believing that they are invincible, that, one day, they will defy death. The youthful believe that destiny's rules don't apply to them. They are above the laws of nature. Unfortunately, though, one day... that delusion would come to pass, and the youthful would no longer be young and beautiful. Fiona had discovered this arduous truth the hard way. 

One morning, you wake up, and you are young. Your face is free of wrinkles. You have no dark circles lingering beneath your eyes. Your porcelain flesh is free of fawn age spots. Time doesn't apply to you, time will never catch up to you. Your skin is still pert and in its prime, but eventually, every empire must be burnt to the ground. Every king must fall. Death, in itself, is nothing. There is no shift in the air when a person passes. The world does not stop revolving. Nothing changes. A person slips away, fades into the darkness--like a shadow when dusk rolls around. There is nowhere to run. There is nowhere to hide. Death, in itself, is simply... there. Death is inevitable, and death will claim your soul. Everyone is living on borrowed time, and at one point or another, whenever karma decides to deal her blows, the price you owe just by living your life must be paid. 

Time and time again, Fiona had tried to avoid paying this price. She'd gone to the greatest lengths known to man, even as far sacrificing an innocent, but she had no soul. Her soul hadn't been destined to be sold. Fiona's soul was lost, and never to be found again. She'd lost her grace to other things--sinister things--acts of such violence, heinous in their nature. It has been said that the heart is a wild creature. That is why ribs are cages. Fiona's heart was certainly wild... but not in a positive light. She was a very pessimistic person. Fiona was drawn to darkness--all shapes and sizes of it--and thrived upon the essence of evil. In order to rise from its own ashes, a phoenix first must burn... but the ashes that once made up Fiona's soul had been lost to the wind, lost to ocean, carrying on as Fiona had lived her life--untamed and unrestrained--dancing in the shadows of what used to be, and what will become. 

There was no one in the world that could love Fiona, not even her own flesh and blood. Fiona had holes. She was broken. But, at the end of the day, Fiona's flaws made her who she was. The moon has craters, scars, and still, people view the moon as a beautiful thing, something to stare in awe at... but the moon is also taken for granted, just like Fiona's potential was taken for granted. She had so much to offer the world, but had such a difficult time trying to display her abilities. She was the Supreme, sure... but the title alone did little to convince others of her worth. She wasn't appreciated, she wasn't thought highly of--and the fault was entirely her own--but some days, Fiona wished that the witches and warlocks in her coven would someday view her as an equal... a friend. No matter how immoral the person, everyone deserves to be loved. 

What did time smell like? Like dust and clocks and people. And if you wondered what Time sounded like it sounded like water running in a dark cave and voices crying and dirt dropping down upon hollow box lids, and rain. And, going further, what did Time look like? Time look like snow dropping silently into a black room or it looked like a silent film in an ancient theater, 100 billion faces falling like those New Year balloons, down and down into nothing. 

The world is nothing, yet it is something. To some, the world is meaningless. It is simply something to endure. To some, the world is against them, weighing itself heavily upon their shoulders. But, to others... the world is everything. The world is a person, the world has feelings... the world thrives on energy, and when that energy is of a negative nature, there are no positive results. There is blackness in the world, sadness... despair. There is heartbreak, and there is love. Love is a rarity. 

I will teach my daughter not to wear her skin like a drunken apology. I will tell her, 'Make a home out of your body, live in yourself, do not let people turn you into a regret, do not justify yourself. If you are a disaster it is not forever, if you are a disaster, you are the most beautiful one I've ever seen. Do not deconstruct from the inside out, you belong here, you belong here, not because you are lovely, but because you are more than that.' 

Fiona should have instilled a sense of self-esteem into her beloved Cordelia. Instead, the belittled her daughter. She laughed in her daughter's face, and with a cruel sense of humor, made jokes. Later on in life, she wasn't necessarily proud of what she had done as a young mother. In truth, there were no excuses that could have made Fiona's negligence towards her daughter justified. It was obvious that the young woman despised her mother. Her entire life, she'd lived in her mother's shadow, paling in comparison. It never seemed as if Cordelia was capable of doing anything right. The world was against her. All odds were against her. Her own mother, a woman that should have supported her, and comforted her daughter after a long day, was against her. What did she have? That was the question. She had nothing, not back then... and now... she still had nothing. She had less than nothing. She was sans a husband, sans an affectionate mother... aside from Myrtle Snow, but she was out of the question. Myrtle was insignificant to the situation. She may have raised Fiona's daughter, but Cordelia did not emerge from Myrtle's womb. Fiona was Cordelia's mother--and it pained Fiona to no end, that, when her daughter glanced at Myrtle, her eyes would light up... she regarded Bozo the Clown as if she'd hung the moon and the stars in the evening sky. That played a huge factor in the grudge that Fiona held against her daughter. The strain in their relationship wasn't Fiona's fault. It wasn't Cordelia's fault. Hell, it wasn't even Myrtle's fault... it was the fault of the world. The world is an evil place. 

There will be some days when you close your eyes while crossing the street, maybe because you want to see what fate has in store for you, or maybe because your depression is running rampant again and you don’t know how to calm her. It’s okay. I will still love you.

There will be a year, or a series of years when your birthday doesn't feel special. Celebrate anyway. Because people spent time baking you a cake and buying you cards and even if they’re your family and they’re obligated to, they still love you. Cherish that love. Revel in it. It is the best gift you will ever receive.

You will learn that the saddest word in the English language is stay. Whether it’s your mother’s voice whispering it before you leave for college, or your ex-lover’s desperate screams as you walk out of the house, it will always be a hard word to hear. Sometimes you should listen to it, other times you shouldn't. Trust yourself. Go with your gut.

Along with hearing the word stay, you will also hear the word why from every person who is remotely related to you. Why did you get that tattoo? Why did you try to kill yourself? Why aren't you married yet? You don’t have to answer them. Be selfish. Keep somethings to yourself.

Some nights you won’t be able to sleep. You will lie awake at 2 am and contemplate existentialism and wonder if the French had a point. Get up. Get out of your bed. Do something. Because even if there is no God, what you do matters, who you are matters. You matter to me.

Some days you will want to run away and never return. So go. Drive to a small town in the Northwest, maybe Oregon, and settle down there for a while. Tell people your name is Elizabeth, because you loved Jane Austen as a child and because this a town full of strangers and who’s to know the difference? Don’t be selfish. Call your mother each night and remind her that you love her. Come back home when you find yourself seeing your sadness painted in the shadows, and when you feel more at home in the arms of a stranger than on your own.

There will be several nights when you lose yourself in the medicine cabinet, because liquor and morphine seem like a faster cure than time. It’s okay. I will still love you in the morning.

One day, in the midst of work, you will learn to forgive. It will start out with a simple reminder of the past, maybe a facebook notification from an old schoolmate or a wedding announcement from an ex-lover. In that moment you will learn that yearning for the past isn't romantic, it’s stupid, and that if Gatsby had just let go of the green light he would've lived. So forgive your past, it didn't know any better, and move on.

Leaving home will hurt, but soon you will learn that home isn't a place but a feeling, and that there is a compass on your heart that points directly to that feeling. Follow that compass. Don’t get sidetracked by boys who don’t care or alcohol that doesn't forgive. If you follow that compass, no matter how lost you get, you will always have a home...

When you begin to feel worthless, remember that the stars died for you. You are made of elements that are thousands of years old, elements that make up every atom of your being. When you want to cut your wrists, remember that the souls of stars live in your veins. Don’t kill them. Don’t be selfish.

Why Fiona had neglected to tell her daughter all of these things... was completely beyond her. She didn't have an explanation for it. She couldn't offer one up. And now... because of Fiona... her daughter was hurting. Her flesh stung with the searing bite of Fiona's hand striking across her face. Her soul was aching because of Fiona's venomous words... Cordelia was hopeless... worthless... she couldn't help anyone... but none of it was true. When Fiona was angry, she allowed her temper to get the best of her, and unfortunately, usually ended up inflicting pain upon those whom she loved the very most, even if she wasn't able to showcase that love. 

Fiona was evil. Pure evil. But even the most vile of individuals once felt something, and now... sitting on her chaise lounge, she wondered if it was possible for her to experience love... or if she was just trying to make herself feel better, to soothe her deflated ego. 

At the end of the day... the question was... was she evil, or was she misunderstood? 

If a man cannot understand the beauty of life, it is probably because life never understood the beauty in him.

Fiona was certainly an acquired taste.

The knock on her bedroom door startled her, pulling her away from such profound thoughts... Jesus H Christ, these children...

[headwitchbitch]

A thin smile was splayed across Fiona's striking visage as she approached her daughter's bedroom door. All was silent, and she considered knocking... but it wasn't worth waking Cordelia up in the dead of the night. If the young woman was fast asleep, Fiona would let her have her rest... but watching her daughter did no harm. Fiona truly regretted the words she'd spat at Cordelia, but it was all said and done now. It was set in stone, and the Supreme of witches had wounded her own daughter far beyond the point of any repair. 

You're not just blind, you are willfully blind! You married Hank to prove some childish point and brought a viper into this sacred house!

Hank was not some lone assassin with a grudge. Witch Hunters never act alone. They are part of an ancient order of men whose sole purpose is to rid the world of witches, black or white.

Now, we don't have to waste our time with worker bees. What we have to do is to find the hive...

The moment Fiona slapped Cordelia across the face, she knew she'd made her bed, and now Fiona was destined to lay in it, until, ultimately, the cancer that was plaguing her debilitated body claimed her life. Fiona didn't want to have to live out her last days like this... Christ. 

Disregarding all thoughts, Fiona turned the doorknob and sauntered inside the dimly lit room, her Jimmy Choos reverberating within the cramped space. Cordelia's room, once shared with her asshole husband, wasn't pint-sized... but it certainly didn't possess the expanse that Fiona's room did. Fiona had always speculated that her daughter envied her mother because of this. Cordelia had never been a material girl, not a day in her life. But, when the subject matter turned to Fiona... Cordelia suddenly seemed to care, just a bit more than she had before. Fiona lived to put Cordelia down. She belittled the girl at every corner she turned, every chance she got--but Fiona didn't mean half of the venomous words that spewed from her coral lips. She'd spoken out of anger--and most definitely regretted the sporadic decision later on. The process didn't usually take an extended period of time. Karma looped around and bit Fiona in her shapely ass rather quickly--quicker that she would have hoped.

You're tainted. You let them get inside your head. 

Don't you understand anything? You can't help me. You can't help anyone. You're worthless, hopeless. 

Get out of my sight.

Fiona regretted a lot of things whilst living her reputable--and entirely controversial--life, but topping the list--a very long list, mind you--of mistakes she'd made, was abandoning Cordelia at such a young age. The day Cordelia had been born, Fiona sent such high hopes to heaven, to a god that she never believed in. The girl turned out to be a failure, and it was entirely Fiona's fault. She was too far gone now... riddled with bitterness, and anger that was entirely directed at Fiona. Myrtle had been Cordelia's one saving grace, and Fiona acknowledged that, but she would be damned if she ever admitted it to anyone other than herself. 

"Delia?" Fiona called out, ambling through the darkness. Jesus Christ. Where was the god damn light switch?  

Haven't you heard? I have no soul. ... I'll just kill 'em all.

Indeed, Fiona may have needed to wipe out her entire coven... including her daughter... but she would fret about that when the time for brooding arrived. 

Death twitches my ear. “Live,” he says, “I am coming.” ― Virgil Publius Vergilius Maro

Fiona certainly felt that her death was approaching—sooner than she would have hoped—but there was nothing that she could do about it. She was exhausted, her limbs heavy, almost as if they were anchors,…

[headwitchbitch]

Go slow with that.

[headwitchbitch]

Where do you think you’re going?

[headwitchbitch]

[headwitchbitch]

[headwitchbitch]

[headwitchbitch]

"Jesus Christ. I didn’t think she’d be this strong. Don’t make such a fuss, you’re not the first witch to be drowned."

[headwitchbitch]

Taupe and Tears || Fiona & Cordelia

Death twitches my ear. "Live," he says, "I am coming.” ― Virgil Publius Vergilius Maro

Fiona certainly felt that her death was approaching--sooner than she would have hoped--but there was nothing that she could do about it. She was exhausted, her limbs heavy, almost as if they were anchors, drowning her out at sea. Fiona had secrets, and lots of them. Between her mysteries and this god damn cancer, she wasn't sure which fate would claim her life first, but she was certainly hoping to take the route that held less pain, and wished to avoid burning at the stake. It was coming, too. She could feel it in her bones, just as she could feel herself blossoming into the coven's next Supreme so many years ago. Fiona was feeling her own mortality, and was experiencing how it would feel to have it ripped away--yanked out of her grasp, out of reach--and flushed down the toilet. Death was coming, and she felt it. Her soul was singing this song... a song of such despair. It was difficult to explain, and she could barely find the words to explain it to another person, let alone herself, but it was there. This song was loud in her ears, reverberating within the walls of her mind... an echo that just wouldn't seem to fade. Fiona had long since stopped trying to make the melody--a dangerous melody, a dark one--disappear. She'd never been a woman that was known to quit, but she was exhausted. Utterly exhausted. And quite frankly, feeling counterproductive.

“It's better to burn out than to fade away.” ― Neil Young

Fiona was fading. With each day that passed, it was almost as if she had grown paler... translucent. It made perfect sense, too. The blossoming Supreme--one of the little peckerheads in the Academy--was murdering Fiona. Brutally. Each morning, she woke up, throwing up. She vomited the contents of her stomach until there was nothing left to emerge on the surface but bile. The bitter liquid burned, but not as much as the question that burned in Fiona's mind on a daily basis... will today be the day?

Meningeal carcinomatosis. That's what the doctor called it. Tiny seedlings that the cancer planted in the lining of my spine. The little bastards are Satan's diet pill. I used to think I understood pain. A burn, a cut, a broken bone. Heartbreak... But this is as if I've been dipped in the River Styx and all the suffering of all the souls that ever were or will be has soaked my body. My body doesn't belong to me - not that I'd want it in this state. I'm starting to look less Samantha and more Endora every day. And what could be more painful than having to tell your child that you're going to die? They say love is the best medicine. 

The most abundant amount of money couldn't purchase a medicine that would cure the ailing Fiona. Her last hope was to coax Marie Laveau into sharing the secret with Fiona, but god knows the Supreme pissed away that opportunity the moment she'd stepped foot into the voodoo practitioner's shithole salon. 

... I have been to St. Louis No. 1 and I have seen the tomb of Laveau. Seen the fat tourists from Little Rock to Hackensack drawing crosses on the bricks, making wishes to the bones of Marie Laveau. Little do they know, all they have to do to get their wishes granted was come down here to the ninth ward and get their hair braided. 

Not only had Fiona pissed her own immortality away, but Cordelia's fertility, as well. There was no way in hell that Marie would ever assist the daughter of her sworn enemy. Fiona's daughter didn't need that half-assed ritual, anyway. It was a bunch of bullshit, all of it. 

Fiona could remember the day she'd dropped her daughter off at the Academy. Cordelia was dressed in a taupe gown with a white turtleneck tucked beneath, her blonde tresses splayed as straight as an arrow upon the ample material. She had been crying moments prior to arriving at Miss Robichaux's Academy for Exceptional Young Ladies and Gentlemen with her mother at her side, an encouraging hand settled atop Cordelia's spine. Fiona had insisted that this was the finest of education that Cordelia would ever receive in her lifetime, but Cordelia saw through that, even at the mere age of eighteen. She had been in her mother's presence long enough to able to recognize when Fiona was bullshitting her way through a situation, just so the outcome would emerge favorable in Fiona's behalf. Most people weren't so intelligent, but Cordelia was the exception--though Fiona never bothered to share that with her daughter. 

Miss Robichaux's Academy for Exceptional Young Ladies and Gentlemen was a school located in New Orleans, Louisiana. The Big Easy. It was an academy dedicated to teaching the art of witchcraft. For centuries, young witches had been able to disguise what they truly were, a masquerade that was put up in an endeavor to ensure the survival of Salem descendants, but one could never be too sure. There were always threats present, especially in this day and age. Girls, and boys, who were enrolled in the Academy's courses were presented with an opportunity to learn how to defend themselves, to stay on the down low, and to become knowledgeable with their ancestors past.

In a way, Cordelia was somewhat excited to be attending a school of such promise and high praise, from what she had heard from Fiona, but she knew better. She'd told Fiona several times, but it wasn't as if Fiona was really interested. She just wanted to get the god damn kid out of her house, so she could go on living the rest of her life--without the baggage of a child weighing her down. Cordelia knew that, around Fiona, it wasn't wise to get your hopes up. Everyone knew that. It came as no surprise. Fiona lived to see that your hopes and dreams came crashing down around you, and she laughed from the sidelines as it happened.

Unfortunately, Cordelia had been stuck with this woman since birth, but she was certain that the feeling was mutual. Fiona had been stuck with Cordelia, not the other way around... in Fiona's eyes, at least.

There were so many parallels that existed in their relationship. It was almost impossible to mistake the two women as anything other than mother and daughter. 

Cordelia was well aware of the fact that she was a mistake. Fiona reminded her of this often. She made sure of it, ensuring that the girl would never forget it. She'd told the tale time and time again, how Cordelia wasn't meant to be conceived, but Fiona was wild in her prime, careless, with a nasty habit of believing that she was invincible, that the parties and the rowdy nights out around town would never fade. Fiona had been kind enough to tell Cordelia about the evening of her conception, how Fiona had been drunk off of her ass, her legs parted for the next man to walk in through the door. She was the Supreme. She had it all. One thing, however, that she did not have, was a form of contraceptive, and it was a mistake that would haunt her for the next eighteen years, as Fiona would often say.

Eighteen years. It was Cordelia's birthday, and her only present was her mother dropping her off at the Academy's doorstep. Fiona had her second husband waiting in the car, shouting, demanding that she hurry it along. He was loaded. He could have retired at the age of thirty and would have been set for the rest of his life, but that was before Fiona walked in. She stole every penny that he had ever made, and sucked the very soul from his body when he was no longer of use to her. Then, it was time to find husband number three.

The past was the past, however.

Ever since Fiona's arrival in New Orleans, she'd been trying to mend her strained relationship with Cordelia. Both women were stubborn--headstrong--and despised being within ten feet of each other. Fiona supposed that it was her fault, but she didn't believe that she should have been the only one considered to be at fault for the tension that was blatantly obvious in their relationship. 

If Cordelia had listened to her mother at all...

...if she hadn't ran off with that loser...

...Did the girl understand anything at all?

Fiona seriously doubted it. Her daughter was as naive as they come, much to Fiona's disdain. 

It's been said that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree... If that was the case, what the hell happened to Cordelia? 

What you lose in blindness is the space around you, the place where you are, and without that you might not exist. You could be nowhere at all. - Barbara Kingsolver

Philosophers have often said that, when someone goes blind, their other senses are heightened. The drop of a pin as it collides with the wooden panels of the canvas below can be heard with not much concentration--little to no effort-to hear such a sound that would ordinarily be out of earshot. The aroma of a warm apple pie--baking in the oven, the distinctive fragrance of it permeating the air--could be detected so easily. The taste of a bitter chunk of pineapple could taste as if it were a droplet of poison upon an innocent tongue. And touch... a simple caress--a gentle graze of another's flesh against your own-could elicit so many emotions from the receiver, so many images--vibrant images... images that vibrated with luminosity, an incandescence that could put the sun's rays to shame.

Fiona could remember that day in the hospital... the day when her daughter had learned of her blindness... like none other. It is a memory that continuously haunts Fiona, in spite of her daughter's restored eyesight... by that god damn firecrotch that couldn't even be bothered long enough to find a set of eyes that matched.

Nonetheless, Fiona was thankful. Not only for herself, but for her daughter. 

Enough bullshit! Anything else you want to tell me now? Because I will see it sooner or later. I had to go blind to see things about you I couldn't see before. A bad cosmic joke. It's a different kind of clarity, an absolute clarity I've never had. The images almost vibrate with light.

Roses pull in love and romance. That's not what I'm looking for right now. I need chrysanthemums. All kinds of them, for strength and protection.

Madison wasn't the next Supreme. The hallmark of any rising Supreme is glowing, radiant health. Madison had a heart murmur. She kept it monitored, she kept it secret. So, I'm sorry, Myrtle. For 40 years, you've been barking up the wrong tree. My mother is the Supreme for a reason.

So many memories rushed through Fiona's mind, memories of Cordelia... her pain. It made Fiona ache. Cordelia had been unnecessarily harsh with her mother the day that she returned to the Academy with her asshole husband, but it was an understandable situation, to say the least. Understandable.

Almost.

Fiona was doing everything that she could in order to release this grudge that she was holding against her daughter, but it was difficult, for lack of a better word, to forget wrongdoings. As much as Fiona wanted to try to mend their relationship, Cordelia was making it impossible. She was a stubborn woman, much like her mother... but, the polar opposite of Fiona, if it made any sense at all. 

Which, it didn't.

And that didn't surprise Fiona. Not at all. 

Lord, help her... she was going to regret her next decision. She knew that much, but her doubt of the situation did nothing to stop Fiona from departing her room and ambling down the hallway in search of Cordelia. She was almost positive that the conversation--an understatement--probably a screamfest, would end in another argument...

But she was trying, and that was more than Cordelia could say.

[headwitchbitch]

[headwitchbitch]

Who’s the baddest witch in town?

[headwitchbitch]