Page 2 of Witchy Woman

“As fun as this has been, I have things to do that don’t include verbally sparring with a lumberjack. Lovely as always, Mr. Cedar.”

I turn tail and flee as fast as I can without running.

I don’t imagine the dark chuckle chasing behind me.

I weave my way through the people, through families bundled up in their matching jackets, and feel a pang in my chest. Happy families always do that to me, though.

My gait slows as I come upon Hazel’s booth. It’s not completely set up yet, but she comes here multiple times a week to get it ready for the new year. She’s an artist and is going to sell her magical moving paintings.

A ripple of jealousy comes unbidden. My sister, the used-to-be hermit, is out here casually using magic to make all her dreams come true.

She’s found herself and her magic. It’s great. She just abandoned me to do it, then let me know in no uncertain terms that I was the reason she had nothing in her life.

The lion, the witch, and the audacity of this bitch.

I walk up to one of the paintings on display. It’s of Lake Erie, a view that you can find close to the coast outside of Cleveland. A spot I showed her. A spot I dragged her to because she used to barely ever leave the house.

And here she is selling a painting of it, her magic causing the waves to lap at the shore.

How did this happen? I was the confident sister. I was the one who knew exactly what she wanted out of life. I was the one who got out of the house and dated boys and was fucking headed toward something.

I was going to finish community college and go to fashion school—design hats, scarves, maybe some jewelry, too. I was going to escape this stupid small town and my fucked-up family, maybe move to London or Paris.

But that dream died a fiery death the minute Hazel stomped out of the house and changed our lives forever.

Now, the roles are completely reversed. Hazel has her soulmate Noah, she has her passion, she’s starting a business, and she has a backbone. Confidence.

She sacrificed me to get all of that. She threw me to the wolves without a single look back. Mom forced me to drop out of college, saying she couldn’t protect Hazel anymore but that she wouldn’t lose both of us. I couldn’t see my friends anymore. She actually stole my fucking car keys at one point.

But does Hazel know any of this? No. She didn’t care enough to ask.

“Hey, you!” Hazel pops up beside me. “Find anything?”

Asking me about shopping? She’s obviously feeling guilty. She doesn’t shrink into herself like she used to, but I can see that guilt written all over her face.

“Can we leave now?” I ask. I regret coming here with her, but I was hoping...I don’t know what I was hoping. Maybe that coming here would distract me. Maybe that it would inspire me.

All it’s done is remind me that I have a soulmate I need to stay away from, a life I hate, and a sister who I don’t understand anymore.

Her face falls, concern knitting her auburn eyebrows together. “Okay.”

Hazeland I arrive back home in a flurry of bags. Her guilt has made her willing to help me carry everything upstairs.

Her guilt also means she’s moved back in to the house from the apartment she was renting from Grandma. Which, in and of itself, isn’t the worst thing in the world. But the house likes her.

I’ve always known the house is sentient, despite Hazel apparently just finding out, and I’ve enjoyed my conversations with it over the years.

When Hazel left, I would sit and talk to the house for hours. It was my way of pretending I wasn’t completely isolated and it stopped me from calling my sister. It doesn’t respond like a human would—I’m not a crazy person—but I’ve learned to decipher the creaks and moans. The way it would moan a little when I let the tears fall, or creak and crackle the floor when I made a joke.

But now that Hazel is back? The house pays attention tobothof us, not just me. And I don’t like it.

Speaking of inanimate talking objects, the candles in my bedroom flicker and pop as I drop my bags on my bed.

Fire whispers to me. I’ve never been able to understand the soft whisperings, and I’ve gotten good at ignoring it. When I first started hearing the mumbles as a preteen it scared the shit out of me, but I eventually figured it was fine because it never actuallysaidanything. It couldn’t be that bad if I wasn’t actually hearing voices.

But not anymore. Not since Mom splashed away in a giant ball of water with her ex-boyfriend-slash-nemesis-slash-whatever-the-fuck-he-was Draven a month ago.

Whenever anyone brings up giving Mom a funeral, the fire says no. It says no so clearly that I can’t mistake it for anything else.