memoirs of a witch | part one / ?
She is thirty five when it happens. Claire remembers the day clearly-- because it had been raining in Salem, Oregon and Gabriella had told her to take a coat. Claire, as usual, had laughed at her, but she had taken a coat and an umbrella anyway. Gabriella remembered the times in which Claire was electrocuted by her own powers when she touched water-- the times in which they had learned to control the blessing of Hekate, the two witches that dared to make their own coven; No, three. It had been three witches.
Claire never loved someone again, not like Sheireen. She would make jokes to Gabriella and force the elder woman on dates, but Claire wouldn't date. She'd put on her best clothes, her fiery red lipstick and go out, claiming that she'd find someone to have fun with-- she'd come home in the middle of the night, telling glorious stories of the man (or woman) she just gave the best night of their lives and Gabriella would nod, pour both of them a glass of wine and ignore the lie like every other lie.
They lived together, ever since they left Beacon Hills. They gave up on the town-- but not because they couldn't handle it. Because they were ready to let go. Let go of the pain, let go of the past. Let go of the sister they lost. They would go to Salem, together-- Gabriella would open a pharmacy and Claire would be a bartender. She'd be in a bar every night-- she'd drink more than the customers, more than she should.
One day, Claire stopped. She stopped drinking-- she stopped numbing the memories. Instead, she remembered.
She'd be sitting on the kitchen table and look at Gabriella's computer and before the elder woman would be mad at her for taking it without asking, Gabriella would see that Claire is looking at evening classes. She always liked history-- she always remembered stories about the supernatural as if it was not a big thing. So why shouldn't she remember human history, too? Claire would take the evening history classes at a community college. She'd take notes and study deep into the night and Gabriella would quiz her against her will. But she'd love it. She'd laugh when they came to the Salem witch trials-- drowning a witch was stupid. At home, Claire would claim that she'd have just electrocuted them all before they threw her in. Gabriella would smile and tell her to not change the topic and name the exact dates.
It didn't take long for them to arrive-- at first, it was women in Gabriella's age, sick and tired of hiding and interested in the story of the famous Alchemist and the Morgan witch, who dared to face every witch hunter out there-- who made a family. A coven. Claire would correct them every time and say "You're forgetting her." And the women would know, look down and mumble how brave she had been, how courageous. How they wished that they would have been able to meet her. Claire wouldn't say anything-- but Gabriella would hold her hand in these moments and she'd take over the talking.
Then, the young ones came. The ones with families-- women in Claire's age, with little girls and little boys who look up to the blonde witch with huge eyes, stammering about how they can make things move, how they can make things burn. Claire is never nice. But these kids, she picks up, one by one and tells them that she knows. That she understands. That they are perfect the way they are.
It was raining that day-- it was dark outside and Claire hurried to make her way back from the store, where she'd get the wine Gabriella liked so much and a whole pack of oreo's, the kind that Claire would eat during a movie. She'd pass a store and see a girl-- a girl about the age of seven, with blonde hair and eyes that were like hers, a bit of blue, a bit of green and a bit of grey. She'd have her hands over something unmoving-- she was wet all over, her whole body soaking as she does something-- something Claire has always seen, always remembered as the most beautiful thing. As if nothing had happened, the rat gets up and runs along-- and the girl would look up at Claire, messy, blonde hair in her face, a hint of insanity in her eyes.
Claire would cry, but the rain would cover it. She'd get closer, get on her knees and extend her hand-- electricity would dance on her palms, despite the way it hurt herself due to the water. "I know.", she would say to the girl, nodding. "I understand." The girl would look at her and say nothing--
and minutes later, they'd be running home together, away from the water, away from the rain-- away from the tears.
That was the night Claire Morgan became a mother.
