When in an enchantment and you realize so early on, pour a full cap or a bottle of salt blessed by an Afrodite priest into your open mouth. Dip your head in blessed water for a minute. Nothing in mind but a firm resolution to put the witch to shame; if they know shame of any sort. Raising your head from the water, like an incantation, you chant: ''No divination, no enchantment against Jacob shall come to pass." Dip your bloody head one more time in water and the enchantment resolve will weaken and in time disappear. It is not a cinch to realize such.
But if you realize. If you happen upon an enchantment. A divination upon your head: your gums formally red are blackening like the back of a charcoal pot. Your eyes are as red as fire. Then it's properly too late. Advice: find a loaded gun to blow open your fucking skull or a sharp point of any object and smash your head against it, over and over again until you can't fucking move. Whichever nice outing plan you want to take a run at, please carry it out. If you don't, then you don't love yourself.
When the enchantment has taken root inside your subconsciousness, you will become a string puppet, depending on the witch's sense of humor. Maybe an errand boy. A sex slave. A footstool. Even an elite assassin. Whatever! You live in the shell you once called your body. Locked out from your actions like a prisoner whose cell doors are broken but escape is like getting any sort of warmth in the middle of the Atlantic. The cell has become so comfortable that you can't imagine another world.
You will have a brain, memories which haven't been compromised but free will is not possible; no inclination to act upon it. Like a dream, so vivid, you experience your every doings, the aftermaths of your actions, but as you can't change the course of events as it plays out in dreamland, so is an enchantment. Like one grasping and groping through walls for a way out at the moment the candle suddenly extinguishes, so is a witch's curse.
Now my fellow people. Mindless children. Don't mind my ranting and lack of decorum in my writing. They are being written by my hand who for all I know has gone batshit crazy. It believes these words and takes it upon itself to reveal the truth to us, ignorant children. Like my hand, my heart follows the same path, and takes it upon itself to aid the hand by viciously pumping out blood that I fear an heart attack will take me first. I've also been converted, nevertheless, for all I know, it could all be a myth. My gums though are black. My eyes red. My trusted gun points towards my head, it's safety off And while I still can, I will pull.
Travis wipes the fog off the mirror. Party at Chasers. And the life of the party must be there. His eyes had flakes of red. That's odd. Weed supply ran out a week ago. A voice whispered and his face turned ashen. His world swarmed through those unrecognizable eyes.
Travis has a predicament. He's been enchanted and it's ever late as never.
****
Bride at the altar, sweating, blinking back the tears which threatened to create a small ocean at her feet, so as not to ruin her makeup, having waited for the groom to show up, close to an hour has gone.
Guests seethe with anger and some glance over the bride with looks of pity and rage but still manage to smile nonetheless.
The groom, having a sense of the alarm he's caused by his prolonged absence, barges in with a rumpled suit and face clothed in sweat, restless eyes begging without words, pleading for some kind of reprieve. 'Forgive me,' those words are scattered all over his face.
The guests sneer though, they are having none of the pleading facade, no excuse. They bare their teeth at him, curse and abuse, and rise, leaving one after the other.
The act of forgiveness is not a choice for the bride to make anymore, for they will never forgive. The annoyance, the insolence of wasting their time. And to bother showing up, all raggedly! His explanation mumbled through the fast movement of his lips is a waste of breath to them, their mind made up.
So they leave and carry the bride just to affront the groom. It is their right. He stands, the groom stands, like a child robbed of its candy, in shame and in scathing tears because he was late to his wedding. Too late on the one thing that matters the most.
****
Travis at the moment feels like this–a groom late to his wedding, who couldn't forecast it all falling apart. He's been going through this life in a bullet train, with the speed of light. All trains have a stop, he just didn't consider that his own stop was just a mile ahead.
His gums blacken. His eyes bloodshot red, as if he just smoked a pound of weed; he swears on his mother's grave that he doesn't anymore. Travis indulges, though he will never admit that to his patrol officer, for a lot of reasons.
His mind trips on and off like a faulty socket. The curse has begun taking charge. He unconsciously reaches in search of an object, anything, but at the end of his frantic search, he wills himself to stop. He can't get through the incessant thought of committing suicide. Death is a cruel option at twenty-six, the very peak of living.
THIS IS IT, DON'T SAY NO.
Those witches got him. This should be it. Who hasn't heard their horrid stories, but he was too young to be blowing his wavy thick black head open in his room. Other suicidal methods, all gruesome, were moderately reflected upon. Moderate as it may be, it did not appeal to his fragile state of mind. His hunk of a body found the next day, or however long it took, all grimly, maybe bloated, maybe dangling from a height; neck red and swollen because of the rough pressing of the rope.
Maybe missing some fleshy chunk of meat on the forehead because it has been spewed open by the hot tip of a bullet.
These vivid images didn't appeal to his languid frame of mind.
Travis leaned against the gray wall of his meagerly furnished apartment, he slid slowly to the floor, propping his leg up. In a moment, warm water trickled down his face and he realized he was wet with sweat. His hand rose to wipe through his forehead, slumping again limp and defeated. He knew his life had come to this point; presumably the end. His chest rose at this thought held fast.
He didn't want this. Never offered himself. But it was clearly not about what he wanted, because all he wanted was just to live. It was never about him! And he knew, he had only been existing for so long.
To exist didn't require a plan or dreams. He didn't dream big in fear his demons would trampled upon them in a mindless rampage. It has just been enjoying life and existing quietly. Now though, at this moment...
To live life to the fullest. To enjoy the little things like the beach, the thundering of ocean waves against the coastline. The little things. To travel.
To see life in a different light. Not through the obscure lens he had been impaired with. Not from over the mountain of sleek fear he has been on. How long? Since he came around. But was that his fault? No! Maybe. He just never grew past the trauma. Never forgot. And it had dawned on him; the end to his all self-loathing beautiful self.
His practiced smile for everyone. Mouth shaping up in different angles based on the setting. Even for the freckled face red-haired girl occupying the fruit stand four blocks down his place. She greets him with the most illuminating smile. Her whole face coloring red, her worn teeth tearing through her face. It could give his darkness a retreat but his practiced smile sees him through as he drives past her. Now those little things could have been the change he needed.
A strong urge to heave came upon him, as he tried to expel the tightness that was presently threatening his oxygen supply. He stared squarely on a part of the gray walls, hands gripping his legs, willing himself to hold back the tears. To be stronger.
A moment seems to pass. Half a minute passed, before a deep guttural scream tore through his throat and the tears came falling. It has been long. His mouth wobbled terribly as he began mumbling incoherent words. He let it all out. Clutching his face with both hands, he let it all out as if he were a child.
