Fatal Fiona

Chapter 1: I Receive a Stupid Letter

Dear Esmerelda,
Resurrection is tricky. If I had known you were going to attempt it on a parrot, I would've stopped you. Unfortunately, I had opera tickets that night. Regardless, I'm sorry you're dead. Being atomized seems like a total bummer.
Your former Familiar,
Fiona

P.S. Sorry I killed your parrot.

Dear Christopher,
To this day, I will never know what you saw in that demon. Anyone with a modicum of training knows that sex demons kill their partners. However, I am sorry I got bored and didn't stick around to watch your back.
He was really hot though. Hope it was worth your life.
Your former Familiar,
Fiona

Dear Hannah,
I guess it's a good thing you were pretty. And a great kisser. Probably Top 10. But the love spell you did during that orgy was mind-bogglingly imbecilic. If I hadn't left when they ran out of wine, I would've discouraged you. Pretty is as pretty does, I guess.
Anyway, sorry you blew up twelve people.... And yourself.
Your former Familiar,
Fiona

Dear Louis,
My god you were dumb. If there's a next life, be less dumb and you might survive long enough to legally drink.
Your former Familiar,
Fiona

Dear Miranda,
This is stupid...

Tapping the silver pen against my desk, I glare down at the sheaf of paper opulently stamped with my raised letterhead. I never should have told my therapist about the nightmares. If I had just kept my gorgeous mouth shut, I wouldn't be stuck here writing these nonsensical things.

"It seems your night terrors stem from a lack of closure," she had said, observing me over the horned rims of her spectacles. "You failed to guide your former Witches so you feel guilty about their untimely deaths. I'm going to have you write a posthumous letter of apology to all your previous charges."

"All of them??" I had repeated, claws unsheathing to dig into the soft leather of her couch. "We both know I lack the attention span to write that many of anything."

"Alright, alright. Perhaps start with the last five and we'll go from there."

She then went on to declare that not only would it be a "cathartic exercise", but it would also help me "cope with the fleeting mortality of Witches" and to "ruminate on where you went wrong" or some such bullshit. All it had done so far was reinforce my deceased pupils' glaring inadequacies.

And drive me to drink.

I should just avoid therapy altogether. I am fully capable of handling my own emotional responses and self-medicating as I see fit. One of the perks of immortality is that you have plenty of time to become self-aware. But those are the terms of my trade: lose a Witch, go to therapy.

I suppose it doesn't help that my most recent track record as a Familiar isn't exactly stellar. After seven-hundred-years of nurturing, teaching and caring for the little shits, one tends to get bored.

And sure, the lifespan of my Witches is shorter than most, but that isn't technically my fault. It's what Witches do, after all. They burn bright, fabulously and deliciously bright, but then they burn out. Some quite literally.

Snagging the charmed wine glass that refills itself with my favorite vintage, I slink out to my marble balcony overlooking Central Park. The beautiful October night beckons with its crisp, promising breeze, blowing ebony curls off my shoulders and I lean into it, sniffing and decoding the various scents. The trees have finally begun to turn and a full, pregnant moon hangs over the towering skyscrapers.

I love this city. My city. I've been here almost a century and have yet to lose interest. Which is more than I can say for any other place I've visited in America. One day in the Midwest and I was howling to leave.