Twice an Abomination:
A girl tells one lie and wham-bam the town screams your pants are on fire man. Not like they wanted the truth after-all, the truth as I see it is rather counter-productive. Not to mention humans have a tendency to ignore blatant things when glimpsing the supernatural.
"Oh Bells get a grip. Don't you think its time to end these lies?" If Kristine's voice was a food it'd be that sweet honey you spend ten dollars at a farmers market for. Ever met those sorts of people? Too tan to be in the sun too long, too lovely to not be bitter that you weigh five pounds less that her. Normal people tend to loss it around these people and then somehow get blamed for the entire alteration. I like to consider myself to be a rather knowledgeable woman, so you'd think that I would have just walked slowly away from Kristine. That is however, not what I regrettably did.
"I have seen more than you can possibly imagine." Octave's of vocal cords rose, crowds swarmed like bees to Kristine's honey, and my 'cool' was effectively lost.
"Like all of Colorado? Wow. I think we've all seen that." Ripples of chuckles rose through the crowd. Kristine had whiter teeth than my skin, it was unnatural, how much time did she time in her dentists chair anyway?
"I imagine you have seen quite a few more places than I have Kristie, you know what with the summer you spent in Chicago. Right?" She blanched, throat constricted and heart pulsing. Kristine had come back last year thirty pounds lighter and gusting about the life-changing experience of volunteering in an orphanage in Chicago.
Her mouth opened to speak, I nudged the tiny mental door into Kristine's mind open with mine. You should tell everyone the truth about Chicago, Kristie. One thought, one suggestions from my mind and the words were spilling from her mouth. When the rather extensive monologue was over a hushed silence fell over the crowd. "At least I'd save my parents if they were dying, tell me do you wish you were dead because I would, if I had done nothing." The triumphant smile slid off my face.
When I complied her this time, it was less of a confession and more of an infiltration. One command: Heat and it began. Spreading like a spiders webs, the mental manipulation crawled through her system like a CNS stimulant. Her body crumpled underneath the weight of my intrusion. Her closest friends descended upon her fragile body as the rest fled.
"People oughtn't talk of what they do not understand Kristine." As the rage seeped out of my pores, I retreated the compulsion.
The curled ball of a woman looked at me, horror apparent, she shrieked "Freak!" I flinched watching her sprint away, her friends glanced briefly after me being flocking after.
My mind stretched out, groping its way to Kristine, touching all the people who knew of Isabella Swan in Levittown. Don't remember a girl like Isabella Swan. The lucky bastards.
I began pulling away at my steams, tugging the threads of DNA until every part of me dissolved. I often refer to this little gift as 'blinking' because it happens so fast, that unless you're capable of looking for it, you'd never even know I was there. There had been only one other I had come across who could could 'blink' like me, apparently the talent is extremely rare in the vampire world. It manifests in those who have a lithe ability to them. The Volturi don't like power like can't control, so the other vampire had to be dealt with a long time ago.
I was going to have to move, again. How absolutely nauseating. I am 641 years-old and one teenage human still has the ability to unsettle me. You'd think I would have learned so kind of self-restraint over the years, but nope, I'm still as unruly and emotional unstable as I was as a new vampire.
I rubbed the fatigue out of my mind. I breathed in two calming breathes and walked to the map. Okay Bells where do we go from here… Small towns…small towns… I scanned the map quickly. Washington is nice, I like rain. I reached for my laptop, researched Forks, Washington. I enjoy the color green, there's a lot of trees. Okay, Forks it is.
I think of Forks, Washington, a world coated in green, wet and crisp. I expand the mental image, a clearing in a section of a forest nobody would think to hike near comes into focus. I will my body, large duffle bag, and patchwork satchel to the clearing's center. When I next open my eyes I am damp and cold.
I let the duffle bag drop from my shoulder and sit on top of it. This has been the third move in the past year. Forks, Washington will be different. Forks, Washington will be home. I pull from the satchel thyme, rosemary, lavender, a mustard seed and small gardening shovel. My lips move to the rhythm of the old spell. For a Wiccan to build a house you must find the equinox of a safe place and mark it complimentary roots from which the earth can build. You bury thyme, rosemary, lavender and a damp mustard seed equidistance from each other, four inches wide and eight inches down. Then, in the five points you burn dried elderberries, the ashes from which will provide protection from those who seek to do you wrong.
I begin the ritual, the latin grows in volume, the words expanding to fill the marked area. The earth responds, humming as the frame emerges. Roman in its atrium, solid walls, archways, a patio off the second story loft and Greek in its Corinthian columns. The walls are wooden; made from the roots of the mustard seeds, the stems and leaves of herbs gather around the wood coating it. Dark berries mark the entranceway, a warning to those who are aware. The house is regular and spectacular, blending with the forest seamlessly. Wiccans do not build homes lightly, they do it to rest when coming out of decades of turbulence. It is a sign of old age and resignation. It is a sign of their power, for it will draw other Wiccans towards it.
Stepping through the vertical paneled wooden door reminds me of Rome, I feel the solid walls, soft and already cold from the air: Ignis. My voice echoes through the indented columned atrium the fire place in the center ignites. I sink onto the wooden floorboards and finish the meditation. When the golden ring around my neck burns I know it is done. There is no going back from this moment. This moment will ripple through the Wiccan community like a heartbeat, especially since I have been dormant for decades now.
I stand lithely and survey the home. Wiccan homes are a manifestation of their aura, the earth uses the Wiccan's offering to construct their psychic presence so as I look around I see the objects that bring me the most comfort. The first floor is an open area with an atrium, fireplace, and a piano in the right corner. The golden oak varnish reflects my face as I stare down at it. I lift the bar, hands skimming the white and black keys. I sit there in silence. Thinking of tomorrow, thinking I ought to play something, thinking I ought to have more things, thinking I was hungry. Seems all I ever do lately is think, it's exhausting.