A Witch's Game | ✓

3 | Value It

The creaking sound of a wooden rocking chair filled the odd silence in her house as her legs instinctively led her to Mr. Wilson's room through the darkness.

He leaned forward, focused on the blank paper before his quivering hand, holding a pencil, came in contact with the paper and he drew a line. Unsatisfied, he crumbled the paper in irritation and threw it the behind him, taking another fresh one.

Viola gently placed her hand on her father's shoulder as she asked. "What is the matter, dad?"

"Can you give me some of your dress designs?" He spoke, his voice raspy from not talking for a while as he kept on drawing without sparing her a glance. "I'm running out of ideas."

She nodded from behind though knowing she wasn't in his sight. Viola sprinted to her room, then came back with a few papers and kept it on the table. The tiny illuminating bulb of the lamp on the table darkened the outlines of the design.

Viola gazed at the dress material laying on the floor, luring her in as her thump caressed the soft fabric.

Should I open my own clothing brand?

She grinned then furrowed before having a lopsided smile formed on her lips. Everything comes with the identity of their respective owners like clothes, food and even books.

Would she become elated if I find out who had written the book Queen of Witchcraft?

She jiggled her head. She did not want to muddle her friend, not when Priscilla was already having a hard time deciding on her future. Viola could only hope that she would make the right choice.

After all, her life depends on it.

~~~

Priscilla picked at the dry flakes of her lips, tearing the scrambled egg on her platter with a fork from the center as she held a pen in her left hand, playing with it. Marilyn ambled out of her room and stretched her arms over her head whilst she yawned, pulling a chair as she sat beside Priscilla. She leaned forward and ran a hand through her daughter's locks, smiling tenderly.

Priscilla bit back a grin at her gesture, the hair strands flying across her face were slicked back as she put another morsel of the egg in her mouth and asked. "Why did you wake up so early, mom?"

Marilyn inhaled in the early breeze of the twilight, folding her hands together as she stared at the food and the paper placed beside it with an unknown emotion in her eyes. She was angry, hurt, indignant, yet the elation of Priscilla's independence was the only thing she could focus on. "You're being self-sustaining and I like it."

Priscilla kept the platter aside when she finished her food. "You know, mom," She trailed off, looking at Marilyn. "All my life I have been goofy, but somewhere deep down at the end of the day, I felt useless."

Marilyn propped her chin in her left hand with her elbow resting on the table and frowned, listening attentively as Priscilla abstractedly grasped the pen in her right hand and added. "I never knew what it feels like to have a passion for something until I met a kid outside of my college."

Priscilla let out a warm breath, tears glazed her eyes, and she shut her them, causing a drop to trickle down her cheeks as she sniffed through her flushed nose and faced Marilyn. "Mom, that kid doesn't even know how much passion she has for education."