Prompt: “this is your love potion and remember your contract, your first child is mine.” Young witch said to a man. He receives the potion then uses it on the witch. “Ok. The first child belongs to you, but you belong to me.”
The witch knocked on the wooden door at the entrance to the cleric’s house. She carried a leather bag in her right hand, and in her left she held seeds she gifted the crows that flocked around her.
The cleric opened the door. “Thank god you are here.” One of the crows flew into the adobe. “Shoo! Shoo!” The crow yelled and shook its wing and almost knocked off a few vases.
The witch laughed and held the pointer finger of her left hand against her lips, seeds still clenched inside, and blew a stream of air. The crow stopped in the air and was replaced with a pile of black feathers and plum, that soon fell and scattered on the floor.
“Oh.” The cleric was surprised, but quickly turned and walked to the couch across the room. “Sit down, get comfortable!” The witch set at the edge of a lounge chair on the other side of a table, looking down at the shoe prints she made on the rug between them.
“I have the contract.” The witch fumbled for paper inside her leather bag. “And the potion is also here, right?” “Yes.”
The witch put on the table a large glass flask and a quenched card.
“Sign here, and here, and look at this picture of my cat, and we’re done.” Upon raising the quill from the card for the final time, the card combusted and disintegrated.
“This is your love potion now. Remember our contract: your first child is mine.”
The cleric sighed. There is no turning back from that point. The witch stood up from the lounge chair, only for the cleric to hastily follow her.
“Where are my manners? Wait here, I should offer you some tea.” He moved erratically, getting the flask and moving to the kitchen. “I’m just putting it in my cabin. What… what tea would you want?”
“Camomile tea with honey, if you may!” The witch turned to the pile of feathers and plum on the floor. She turned her finger to her lips yet again, and a crow arose instead of them, trotting in shame to the exist. She smirked while following the crow with her eyes.
The cleric came back to the room with two cups of tea, and stationed them on the table. A sweet aroma filled the space between them. He offered the witch the red cup, and took the blue one for himself. They each sipped, and smiled at each other.
The witch’s eyes widened open, as the cleric put on a menacing face, reaching with his hands forward clasped within themselves. “You may own my child, but now I own you.”
The witch approached the sofa, and set near the cleric. She stroke his cheek, and he became uncomfortable as he felt the touch of her rough fingers and sharp nails.
“I have to tell you something.” Her voice was warmer, softer than before as she whispered. The skin on her hand began to clear with each stroke. She grabbed his chin and turned his head in her direction, and approached close with her lips, almost touching his lips, then his cheeks, his neck, until her mouth was right near his ear.
“You are incredibly sexist, honey.”
The cleric did not dare to move. The witch kissed him tenderly on his skin. She rose up and stood right in front of him, and his static startled gaze met her cleavage.
“Not yet.” She smirked, and lifted his head upwards, tugging her finger below his chin, the fingernail carving slightly into his skin. His eyes moved frantically, never meeting hers. “There is no ownership in love.” She put a finger on his mouth, and then inside and out of it.
He did not speak a word - he couldn’t, as he found out his speech and scream were muffled behind the newly formed stitches on his mouth. “Someone has to teach you a lesson about relationships.” She kissed him from his mouth down to the top of his chest. She held the collar of his shirt, separating it from his body. “Do you like it?”
The cleric examined her once more. She was still dirty. Her boots were covered in mud, her clothes full of patches and holes, her face was greasy and her hair tangled with branches and leaves. But there was beauty to her. It was as if she shed off her frightening features.
The cleric screamed, the sound barely reaching her ears. The witch snipped her fingers, and the seams were gone. He whispered a quiet yes, and tears formed in his eyes. He was terrified.
She unbuttoned his shirt, and then took off her top, revealing a boney, thin body. She took his hand and laid it on her body, and she laid hers on him. He felt her ribs just an inch from his fingers.
She sat on the table, shaking it. The tea cups jumped and rolled, spilling the now lukewarm tea everywhere. The red cup hit the ground and shuttered. He yanked his hand back to him, and walked to the place of the fractures, standing on top of them silently.
“No.” The cleric gathered the fragments. He avoided looking at her.
“I guess.” He took a big sigh, still looking at the floor. “That I haven’t though it through.”
“You haven’t thought about me.”
The cleric finally looked at the witch. He was filled with remorse. “That’s right.”
“Then I have to tell you that the potion hasn’t worked.”
The cleric dropped the fragments. He marched towards her, his intrigue, concern and remorse turning to rage. “Then what the fuck is that contract?”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong. The potion works perfectly. You just really shouldn’t mix it with hot water, honey and camomile. It becomes a neutralizer. And it’s really sour too.”
The cleric screamed, and the witch laughed. “Wasn’t I clear I was teaching you something?”
The cleric sat down, holding his head. “I shouldn’t mess with witches.”
The witch whistled. Rats and crows entered the adobe, cleaning the broken pieces of the cup and the remains of the tea. She put her top back on, and threw his shirt on him. “No. You shouldn’t mess with women. Put something on. I don’t want to see you naked anymore.”
The witch walked towards the door, and the pests followed her. The cleric was deep in thoughts of gathering a mob, and didn’t pay attention to her.
“Unless…” she turned to him. He raised his head. “Unless what?”
“I think I’d like you. Since you were so keen on getting me to love you, you may might as well ask me for a date.”
“A date? After everything you’ve done, why would I ever want to see you again? Are you out of your mind? Is Thursday at 7 fine?”
“Yes, it will be great. You know where to find me.”
The cleric looked at her one last time. She looked exactly like she did when she entered the door, perhaps a bit worse. All the worts and the pimples, all the dirt and the grease, and she was hideous. Weirdly, it was comforting. As if he was put under a spell.
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