The Unwanted

3.

Faith Deamonne

3.18.1.26.25

I stepped into the snow, the chill a sharp, biting sting that soon gave way to an unsettling warmth, a warmth that seeped through my numb feet and wrapped around my bones like an embrace from the void.

The snow, the snow whispered to me, yes, it whispered in voices only I could hear, voices that told me to dance, to spin, to lose myself in the madness, the sweet, sweet madness. I lifted the hem of my gown, tattered edges kissing the snow, and leapt into it.

Oh.

I jumped again, and again, my feet sinking into its embrace, leaving ghostly marks that seemed to writhe and twist as if alive.

And then—then I was smiling, smiling so wide it hurt, it split my face in two, but I couldn't stop. I couldn't remember the last time I had felt this, this joy, this happiness. Was it months? Years? Centuries, maybe? Time had slipped away, like blood from a wound, and I had forgotten, forgotten it all. But now, I was alive in this twisted reality where nothing made sense but everything was just as it should be.

The world was spinning and I laughed, a sound that echoed through the silence, sharp and brittle, like glass shattering, and I couldn't stop, no, I couldn't, I wouldn't. I didn't want it to end, didn't want to remember what comes next, what always comes next, the hunger, the thirst, the endless need that gnaws at my insides, always there, always waiting, lurking beneath the surface, beneath the snow, the snow that's falling and falling, and I—oh, I—I am falling with it, sinking into the cold, the warmth, the smile that won't leave my lips, that I don't want to leave, not now, not ever.

-

Isn't it all but madness, this insatiable hunger for connection, this feverish grasp at affection that slips through our fingers? It is beyond the pale of reason, beyond the limits of the mortal coil. To crave such communion, to yearn for that which lies so tantalizingly out of reach—it is the very definition of lunacy, a descent into the arcane depths of one's own fractured psyche.

And yet, it is this madness that drives us, that compels us to seek out the dark corners of our own hearts and the forsaken corners of our reality.

In the dim, dim recesses of the old library, I was so engrossed, so ensnared by the cryptic tales, that I did not notice the approach of my mother until she was nearly upon me.

She approached me, her movements slow, deliberate, as if drawn by some unseen force. And then, then with a voice that dripped with something I couldn't quite place, she asked the privilege of combing my hair.

Such a request, peculiar, most peculiar, struck me with a sense of the uncanny. It was as if she sought to perform some ancient rite, a forgotten ritual long abandoned in the annals of our shared past.

I consented with a nod, my heart drumming a frantic rhythm against my ribcage. Her hands, when they finally touched me, were both a blessing and a curse—delicate, almost ethereal, as if they were woven from the very fabric of twilight itself. There was a disquieting tenderness in her touch, a warmth that was both alien and strangely soothing. Her fingers wove through my hair with a precision that seemed beyond mortal skill, as if they sought to unravel the very strands of my being.

The sensation was foreign, an intoxicating blend of comfort and unease.

I sat in silence.

But the silence stretched on, heavy and suffocating, as if it were a living entity, waiting to pounce.

"You have to make yourself useful." Oh, how my chest tightened with a pain that I could scarcely bear. I had dared to hope, foolishly, pathetically, that she might, just once, say something kind, something sweet, something that would soothe the gnawing ache within me. But no—no, of course not. "Babies, Faith. Keep the legacy alive."

I fought back the wince that threatened to betray me, swallowed it down like bitter poison. She went on, relentless, merciless. "You need a man, I will find one for you. Someone strong, someone who doesn't think you're mad and run off."

That word—it echoed, reverberated, bounced around in my skull like a caged beast. I felt it clawing at the insides of my mind, and before I could stop it, a hiss escaped my lips.

"Calling your own daughter crazy is the true madness." I spat, turning to her. Words tumbled out, bold and reckless as if my tongue had been set alight. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself?" The room seemed to darken, the shadows growing longer, deeper, as I stared her down. "I feel her, Ma." I whispered, the intensity of my plea twisting my voice into something desperate, almost frenzied. "She's in my soul, she's here, she speaks to me. What don't you understand?" I said, my eyes wild, frantic, searching her face for any sign, any glimmer of understanding, of recognition. But her face remained a cold, unmoving mask, as if my words had fallen into the void, swallowed up by the darkness that surrounded us both.

The comb slipped from her hand, falling to the floor with a soft, hollow clatter that seemed to echo in the suffocating silence between us. She rose then, slowly, deliberately, drawing herself up to her full, withered height as if summoning all the power she once wielded over me. I, too, stood, mirroring her movement with an arched brow.

She was shorter than me, her body bent with age, her spirit dulled by the passing of time. Weak, old, frail—a relic of the past that had once held me captive. I could feel my eyebrow arch in a slow, deliberate challenge, daring her to assert the control she no longer possessed. If someone had told me in the innocence of my childhood that I would come to harbor such hatred for the woman who bore me, who fed me, who clothed me in the clothes of a far-off age, I would have met their proclamation with nothing but laughter.

But I had learned to love her in spite of herself. Even as she wielded her coldness like a blade, as she shrouded herself in that unyielding rudeness, as she remained distant, absent in all the moments I needed her most, I sought her love with a desperation that bordered on madness. I craved it, hungered for it, that elusive warmth, that fleeting reassurance that only a mother could give. I yearned for it with every fiber of my being, for that embrace, that tender touch that would chase away the shadows when I cried.

The love that had once filled my heart had turned to ash, and all that remained was this bitter, twisted contempt for the woman who had failed me, the woman who had molded me into something so very different from what I was meant to be.

"Tomorrow, I shall venture into the city to secure a suitor for you." She declared, her voice clipped and measured, each syllable falling from her lips with a chilling deliberation. "You had better heed my words, for our future hangs by the thinnest of threads, solely dependent on you—"

"Your," I interjected, "your future."

She straightened, her posture rigid, her eyes narrowing into cold, flint-like shards. "I provided you with a rooftop, a shelter. You owe me, girl. You owe me your very existence."

"Owe you what, precisely?" I demanded, my words dripping with disdain. "Shall I perform a dance and beam with gratitude because you did nothing more than the barest of minimums?"

Her frown deepened, twisting her features into a visage of loathsome repugnance. In that moment, she embodied the very essence of the dark folklore that surrounded our kind—witches cursed to bear the marks of their infernal nature. Yet, her appearance at that instant was grotesque beyond mere legend, an abomination of arched, gaunt nose, lips as dry and cracked as ancient parchment, and eyes empty as the abyss.

Without a word, she spun on her heel, the hem of her dark, flowing gown sweeping the floor.

And I was left alone in the darkness, with nothing but the whispers in my mind, the echoes of a soul that wasn't entirely mine.