In a dark room, a light dimly flickers. A single candle burns, the smell of cinnamon and vanilla fill the air. The smoke lifts, casting ghostly shadows on the wall. She sits in a light blue satin chair with a book lying in her lap. On the pages, drips of crimson blood cover sentences. Wet marks bleed through pages, mixing with the thick blood. A silver ceremonial knife sits on the side table. A dark oak wooden bowl is tipped over. Remnants of lavender, sage, citrine, and blood are scattered beside it.
She removes her hands from her face and looks down. Gashes and slashes are seen on the palms. It failed. The spell fails again.
Her veins burn with power. The darkness growing inside. It is getting harder to taper the magic yearning to be released. Regardless of what she does, nothing works. Nothing reverses the darkness inside. Her emotions, once barely under the surface, are disappearing. Daily she fakes a smile, a laugh. She tries to be the “Charity” people once knew. On the outside, she looks different. Her black hair. Her dark eyes. They don’t know what lurks beneath the skin.
She tosses the book aside. It lands in a messy pile of books; it looks to be about twenty. She returns to her room, gets dressed for the day, and slips on gloves to cover the failure. She looks in the mirror, no whites in her eyes now. She walks out of the house and thinks about the day she succumbs completely.