WHEN: friday july third, 10pm WHERE: the balcony, maeve’s house WHO: closed for @ofxlita
Cole remembers death from her childhood, the long slant of its shadow across her bed at night; looming, lurking, whispering. She wishes it’d stayed that way. She wishes she’d stayed away, never stepped foot in this shithole town. Now it’s sunk its teeth in deep and oh, death is fucking screaming. Carter, Asteria, Belen, Ren, Aaliyah. Lives snuffed out like they never meant a goddamn thing in the first place, and now, she hears them ceaselessly: lost, despairing, begging her to bring them back —
And she’s angry. She’s haunted and most of all, she’s a fucking coward, so she drinks. She smokes and snorts herself into medicated sanctuary, where sound and sensation is smothered. It’s a numb oblivion and she’s like this when the ritual happens, when magic steal away what little is left of her soul, without her say-so.
When she comes round the following afternoon, everything feels wrong. Cole can’t breathe right for it and she spends an hour gasping into the soft skin of Maeve’s neck. She’s scared too, they all are. It’s what has the last dark witch reaching out to Ofelia, the strain between them from before Salem belonging to another lifetime.
They sit out on the balcony, staring out onto the canopy of trees lining Maeve’s property and the darkness beyond. Cole lights the joint and takes a drag first before offering it to the other woman. “I’m uh... stupid question, probably, but how are you holding up?”













