Petals of the Damned

Bravo

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

The evening air was thick with the scent of burning leaves, the gray sky darkening as the sun slipped below trees. Branches closed in on obscured paths, each trunk a looming figure in the dim light.

Disturbing the quiet rustling of fall leaves, a young witch ran quickly through the forest, dodging the skeletal arms of gnarled branches as she ran. The air was thick and damp, the familiar earthy smell mingling with the smoke coming from the town and a hint of decay that crept under her skin. Around her, roots pushed through the ground like bones through flesh, making the path treacherous and uneven, but she didn't notice.

Strange sounds echoed in the distance - leaves rustling without wind, the snap of a twig, the faint call of an owl - but it was the silence between those sounds that unnerved her most. The young witch stumbled over roots and rocks as she ran deeper into the woods, tears streaking down her cheeks and causing the strands of her long, brown hair to stick to her cheeks.

Each step brought her further from the town and from the house she didn't dare call her "home". Her mother's words, sharp as a knife, echoed in her mind.

"Wicked, despicable child!" her mother had spat, voice low and seething. The young witch could still feel the cold weight of that accusation pressing against her chest. They were witches, of course, but even some actions were too deplorable for her mother

They had argued before - about chores, about her stubborn nature, about her refusal to blend into the coven's expectations - but never had she seen her mother like this. Tonight, her mother's rage was something different, raw and unrestrained, ignited by what she had seen: her and another one of the village girls, fingers intertwined, faces close together while they did laundry.

"Do you even understand what you're doing Agatha?" Her mother's voice had been a hiss, meant to be heard by them alone. "Bringing shame on our family! Our coven! On me. You think yourself immune to consequences because you're young, but it's time you understood."

Agatha had lifted her chin, flippant. This same conversation had happened numerous times, always because she was "corrupting" some girl or another with her ways. As if they both weren't willing parties. "There's no shame in what I do," she had said.

Her mother's hand had struck swiftly, an unyielding blow that cut through Agatha's words and left her reeling. The sting of it still burned on her cheek, a reminder of all the invisible lines she'd crossed in her mother's eyes.

"Wicked child," her mother had repeated, voice now wavering with something that bordered on fear and disgust. "Twenty years! Twenty years old and you still have not learned. Get...get out of my house! I will discuss with our sisters what to do with you. Whatever spell has hold of you, I'll see it broken. I'll see you restored to a proper witch, whether you like it or not."

When Agatha reached the creek bed, she sank to her knees in the moss and pressed her forehead to the cool earth, her sobs raw and muffled by her palms. Here, in the quiet heart of the forest, she felt truly alone, yet strangely at ease in a way she couldn't in Salem. Here, away from whispers and prying eyes, away from rules she did not yet understand, she could breathe.

Agatha lifted her face to the sky, wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands, her fingers brushing against the red mark on her cheek. She used her weak arms to back herself up against a sturdy tree, her body aching with exhaustion as she wrapped her arms around her knees and pressed her forehead to them. The bark was rough against her back, but she liked the pain, craved it almost.