Day 0:
Her mama died. Her mother. It was meant to be her and— she’s gone.
“Minha filha. You are fire and blood and beauty and pain. Make your place in this world.”
Day 4:
The tears had long since dried on her face. She was tired, the sort of tired where you were just numb, no emotions coming forward for there was no energy to sustain the emotions.
“Make your place in this world.”
Her hand curled into a fist, warmth curling inside her fingers. Her place?
Her fist felt like it was glowing.
She would learn more about the power that ran through her body, the warmth that flowed from her toes to her fingertips to her head. She would control it, master it, wield that power for herself. She just needed to plan.
Day 7:
“Hello, is this the Torren Coven—”
“Little lady, you have the wrong house.”
The door slammed in her face.
Day 10:
“Hello, is this the Driscoll Coven—”
The door slammed in her face.
She turned around.
Day 51:
Layla had been dating Brian for two and a half weeks. They were sickeningly sweet. She giggled at all the right times, his hand had a permanent resting spot against her waist. Layla and Brian go on weekly dates. Layla loved the stubble that Brian was beginning to grow out. Brian loved the way Layla’s blonde hair curled just so.
Micaela just wanted to meet his family. Meet his Coven. The Ainsworth Coven.
Day 70:
They had sex. It was okay. Nothing great.
Maybe it was his sexual prowess?
Maybe.
Day 84:
The dinner was perfect.
She was commanded asked to have a conversation with Rhea Ainsworth. Alone.
“You have magick. An enchantress. What do you want with my son?”
“I just wanted to learn. To understand!” Earnest. Open. Wide eyes.
“I am sorry Layla, but I must ask you to leave and never come back.”
Layla’s eyes filled with tears, a broken sob wrenching out of her body. A flicker of guilt flashed through Rhea Ainsworth’s eyes. Good, Micaela thought.
Micaela left and never looked back.
Day 107:
Salem, despite how stereotypical it might seem, had libraries and book shops filled to the brim with magickal books. Micaela took great advantage of that.
Sarah was on a road trip alone across the country, hitting up all the big, historical places. She loved history, especially women’s history. Salem was an obvious choice. Sarah didn’t always look people in the eye. Sarah apologized when she didn’t have enough money for the books, her hands fidgeting awkwardly behind her back. The old men and women cooed over her, giving her outrageous discounts and cookies and soft smiles and open offers to enter their homes. Micaela wondered if they knew who they were inviting inside.
Micaela bought a laptop in this town. Micaela took photos of everything, took extensive notes. She needed a back-up. She made sure that the laptop never used wifi. That could be traced.
Day 126:
The motel said regretfully that she had been staying there for too long. Sarah apologized profusely. Oh lord! Where had the time gone? Time really does fly when you’re having fun! Sarah told the people in town that she was continuing on her journey. And where was her next stop? Stonewall. Stonewall in New York City. People said good luck and gave her food and drinks and money. Sarah smiled and thanked everybody graciously, tears coming to her eyes.
Micaela was glad she wouldn’t have to pay for food for the next whole week.
Day 128:
She killed someone. Well, it was an experiment. She just wanted to see if that spell from the green book actually worked.
It worked. But there was blood on her pants now. Fuck.
Day 128 (Later):
Micaela entered the grocery store, looking at the various soaps. Which ones would scrub out blood most efficiently?
Micaela swung around to stare wide-eyed at the older woman.
“You’d been staring at them soaps for a long time. Must be thinking real hard.”
“I— I was just confused.” Micaela’s cheeks flushed red. “I— I got blood on my pants and I don’t know how to wash them?” she stuttered hesitantly. Her blush was steadily creeping downwards.
The older woman smiled kindly in commiseration before leaning up, picking up a bright orange bottle. “Tide. The perfect soap.” She pulled it down before leaning closer, her voice lowered as if she was sharing some deep, dark secret. “But, from my experience, seltzer water with lemon juice works just as well.”
Day 134:
Gen, short for Genevieve, hated her full name. Said it was too fluffy, reminded her of princesses and tutus and Paris and snobby accents. Pretentious and stuck-up. Gen was tough, her image completed by an old leather jacket, lips painted dark red, and a smirk that could make the devil himself stop dead in his tracks. A bombshell. Dangerous. A penchant for fist fights and motorcycle races, but always escaping unscathed, not a single speck of dirt. A girl who immediately caught the eyes of one Brandon Livingstone.
Day 189:
She was on the road again.
Sex was still unappealing.
Covens were still shutting her down.
Her magick swirled around her as she punched a tree, eyes widening as her magick solidified before making the tree explode into splinters.
She hadn’t realized how angry she was.
Day 261:
Four more Covens.
“You have no bloodline, no ancestral value.”
“We don’t accept outsiders.”
“You are not needed.”
“Leave.”
Finally alone, Micaela screamed.
Birds took off into the air. Animals went scurrying to their burrows.
Eyes burned with righteous anger.
Day 321:
Micaela stopped at the top of the hill, smiling gently at the view. It was beautiful.
She turned around, looking at the large, empty space. Maybe she could just stay for a while, just watch the day pass, for once.
“Make your place in this world.”
What would her mother think of her now? Would she be proud? Disappointed? Worried?
She hadn’t been focused on her surroundings, so when an old woman seemingly appeared out of thin air, Micaela couldn’t help but jump. A hand reached for the small knife she kept on her person, as no intelligent woman would ever traverse any sort of border without at least having one weapon to protect themselves with.
“Paz, Micaela Vesna, filha de Juliana Vesna.”
“How do you know my name?”
A mysterious smile. “I have seen you coming for quite some time.”
An old house, complete with a crooked roof and vine wrought windows, materialized behind the old woman.
“My name is Galinia. Come, have a cup of chimarrão.”