Opposites Attract ━━ Paul Lahote

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Oliver is aware that the Wicca family line isn't a normal folk.

And yet, his Mother had been the odd one. Because unlike the bizarre and fantastical members of the Wicca bloodline, Francis Wicca had been totally and completely, normal.

Or at least chosen to be.

"Infuriatingly underwhelming", his Aunt Polly would say, glass of red in one hand, the other gracefully dangling a cigarette as she'd gossip her woes to a ten year old Oliver, during exceedingly rare visits to the Wicca family home

"Your mother has wasted her talents Oliver, such a pity." She would say sadly, "We're a dying breed you see, love."

Oliver hadn't really know what his Aunt had meant by that.

And if, on these rare occasions, his Mother and Polly would argue into the night about it, then little Oliver was blissfully unawares, -childhood naivety at its best.

"You're messing with nature's course, Fran." Polly would argue, and level her sister a tired look.

      "He's not your son, Polly."

Polly's Brother-in-law, James Smith, was frightfully boring.

Charming to look at, undeniably, but he worked in car insurance or something equally as mundane, and thus always too dull for Polly to really have an opinion of the man. He just wasn't Wicca enough to waste thoughts on. The two, James and Francis, had met in high school, and married not long after.

How unfortunately vanilla, Polly had always thought. Fitting, really.

"He's Oliver Wicca, not Oliver Smith, last I checked at least." On this, Polly was always smug.

"He's a Wicca in name only. And you forced our hand in that! Jesus, we can't even get him baptised." James would argue, handsome face turning an unfortunate red.

Francis and James stopped bringing little Oliver to Forks after that. And Oliver never questioned why he was Wicca not Smith. Why he couldn't see his Aunt.

Why he couldn't go to church on Sundays like his friends at school complained about.

Which for preteen Oliver had seemed like a pretty sweet deal. Sundays were for video games and pancakes, and endless fun. Because why would it be any concern for him that he couldn't go, let alone set foot, inside a church?
Especially when he turned thirteen and girls still seemed super gross but boys started being pretty. And after that discovery? Well, Oliver was just glad he didn't need to add devout Christian's to the hurdle of coming out.

So, his parents cagey behaviour around establishments of His Lord and Saviour were prominently forgotten, along with any thoughts spared for his eccentric Aunt and any conversations whispered at night.

Until Oliver turned sixteen and thinking boys were pretty translated into wanting to kiss boys stupid, and thus like all teenagers, he started sneaking out to do just that.

Which, is entirely where his Mother and Father royally screwed up.

Because along with secrets comes ignorance, and well Oliver had ignorance of his bloodline in the bucket loads.

Naivety had Oliver following Noah O'Connell into the quieter parts of the city, streets lined with dilapidated buildings waiting for refurbs.

Ignorance, and maybe hormones, didn't make him pause at the gates of a run down building. Instead, he was focused on sandy hair and freckled cheeks and wanting to get his tongue as far down Noah O'Connell's throat as possible.

He didn't notice the half burnt spier above or the crooked cross hanging above the entrance. Didn't spot the rainbow stained glass with all its beautiful figures.

Oliver's toe had barely brushed the threshold.

Some say there was nothing left of little Noah O'Connell. That there wasn't much left of anything. Just a burnt out shell and one very singed Wicca boy. Gas explosion, City Officials cite. Just another abandoned building left too long, a time bomb waiting to happen, really. An avoidable but tragic accident. A sad coincident.

The murmurs come later, after a respectable dust has settled.

Some say it was murder. These others, the skeptics, the stay-at-home-mothers and bake sale grandparents, with their WhatsApp group chats and their internet conspiracies, keyboard warriors of justice who couldn't let such an unpleasant incident go unturned.

To them, Francis' son was a liar. Oliver, with his too pretty face and almond eyes. Enchanter. Must have persuaded Noah to come with him- must have know the danger. Noah was a nice boy, they would say, he wasn't like that. As if that made Oliver otherwise.

And with a name like Wicca it wasn't long before-

WITCH. Scrawled across his 10th grade locker, big bold and red. Dripping. WICCA WITCH KILLED NOAH.

Destiny is a funny old bitch like that.

Because Francis Wicca had made the gravest error when keep her son from his name. Whether Smith Or Wicca, Oliver was destined to be marvellous, never normal. Never a face in the crowd. He had unfulfilled purpose.

He just hadn't know it.

Hadn't know it when he'd left home, school, sixteen and unafraid of the world yet.

Seventeen and more travelled than he should be, black eyed and broken hearted. Unfairly hardened.

Hadn't know at eighteen, when life already felt over-lived.

Nineteen and Fork bound.

Destiny is inevitable. And having felt like he'd lived already, suddenly finding something to live for was an unaccustomed feeling. A drive never felt. Because for the first single moment of his life, Oliver was being a Wicca on the right path, oddities and all.

And he'd found his purpose.

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