The Witches on BellaRow Street

2. On The Count Of Three...

My Soul feels like magic.
*:･ﾟ･ﾟ:*:･ﾟ･ﾟ:*:･ﾟ･ﾟ:*:･ﾟ･ﾟ:*:･ﾟ:*:･ﾟ･ﾟ*

"Fay, don't be mad at me," I say, the words slipping out before I fully understand why. The moment they leave my mouth, I feel the tension in the air thicken, like a rope being pulled too tight. Faylayee's eyes widen, her lips pressed together as if holding back a storm. I hear the faint hum of the broken street lamp, its flickering light casting uneven shadows on her face. The sharp smell of garbage from the alley hangs heavy in the air, making it even harder to focus. My heart pounds in my chest, the sound so loud it feels like everyone can hear it. I say the words to try to calm her, to make her see reason, but they feel weak and hollow.

Junie glances at BeeBee and crosses her arms, her expression unreadable but heavy with judgment. Her presence feels like a wall—solid, firm, and hard. She doesn't say anything, but the way her jaw tightens makes it clear she's waiting for me to pick a side. I shift my weight, my heels scraping lightly against the gritty concrete, grounding me in the moment. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself as the prickly sensation at the back of my throat forces me to cough.

I look at BeeBee and speak the words I know will change everything.

"I think we should go with Aunt BeeBee's plan—let's cover it up." As the words leave my mouth, I notice Faylayee's expression falter. My choice isn't just about logic—it's about survival, and I hope Faylayee understands that too.

"Excuse me–" Faylayee gasps so loudly it feels like it echoes through the narrow alley, bouncing off the grimy brick walls. Her glare is sharp, cutting right into me, and I can feel the weight of her bitterness pressing against my chest. The flickering streetlight above us seems to spotlight her frustration, highlighting every crease in her furrowed brow. The smell of rotting garbage lingers in the air, making the moment feel even heavier, like the whole world is against us. Her reaction is theatrical, almost exaggerated, but I know there's real anger underneath it all.

"Fay, I–"

Her grievances quickly morph into sarcasm, her words dripping with bitter humor. "Yeah, let's cover it up, and while we're at it, let's toss him in the dumpster and bury him under a heap of garbage." The way her voice rises and falls makes her sound like she's mocking me and the entire situation. The streetlight flickers again, casting shadows that dance across her face, making her seem even more dramatic. I notice her tiara catch the dim light, the sparkles completely at odds with her biting tone. It's like a reminder that tonight was supposed to be fun and carefree—something we've completely lost.

Junie, of course, jumps in with her usual bluntness. "Wow, Sis, that's not a bad idea." Her eyes dart toward the corner, and she points, her face lighting up with a mix of realization and dry humor. I follow her gaze and spot the makeshift supplies: crates stacked against the wall, a worn wooden panel leaning precariously, and a black plastic bag dangling from a rusty hook. The bag flutters slightly in the cold breeze, as if calling out to us. Junie's practical nature shines through, even in moments like this, where logic battles against morality.

I glance toward the corner, taking in the scene. It's not perfect, but it's doable—just like Junie says. The tools are there, waiting for us to act. The sharp smell of rust and damp wood hits my nose as I stare at the supplies, and I can't help but feel a strange sense of inevitability.

Faylayee gasps again, clutching her Mardi Gras beads so tightly they dig into her fingers. It's like she's holding onto how things were tonight before all this mess. Her bride-to-be sash shimmers faintly under the flickering streetlamp, and her baby blue mini dress, looks out of place in this dirty alley. Her silver heels are still spotless, but the curls in her hair, damp from the evening air.