Wiccan Act One: Occult

5 | History of the Occult

Dedicated to ridampanesar

Cyrus

V

Ever since his aunt dragged Michael into their house, Cyrus always hated dinner.

Well, more like he dragged himself.

Nine times out of ten, he managed to convince her that he had a pile of homework to do and ate in his room instead. Seeing as he sat on thin ice from skipping school, he kept his mouth shut, knowing Christian wouldn't be able to save him this time.

He had the dinner table set perfectly, laying out the plates, napkins, and utensils on the wood. It sat in an awkward position between the living room and kitchen, as it didn't fit anywhere else. On a regular day, that's fine, but today not so much, it barely sat two people. Michael threw everything off.

He pulled out two stools, thinking the least his aunt's boyfriend should be able to find his own. That allowed Aunt Rose to set down her lasagna, potato salad and fried plantains; Cyrus and his dad's favourite. Already it left a bitter taste on his tastebuds.

At six pm, he fixed his attention on the door, hearing the doorbell ring and hoping Aunt Rose wouldn't tell him to answer it. Regrettably, she gave him a stern look, nodding to go.

He flung it open in a huff, coming face to face with a pastel blue button up and grey tie. Whether Michael had showed up at school with that or if he tried to impress his aunt by running home to change, Cyrus didn't care. Stepping to the side, he gestured for Michael to come in.

"Good evening Cyrus." Michael's deep voice sounded. It didn't take an investigator to tell that Michael wasn't from here. Apart from his Mexican heritage that he brought up every three seconds, he alienated from the rest of town. He never took part in any celebrations, he never helped the other teachers decorate for Halloween, nor did he engage with anyone outside the school.

Other than his aunt and some parents of the students he teaches, Cyrus never saw Michael talking to anybody. He smiled to himself, thinking, maybe everyone else sees how much of a prick he is too.

What Cyrus had to admit, however, Mr Hope was a very good-looking man. Young with a beard similar to Rowan's dad, except his coloured as tar and less developed. Same with his hair, sitting on his head with thick stubby curls. He also looked worked out a bit, being on the thicker side. That, plus his perfect rosy skin, fit Aunt Rose's type to a T. No wonder she started making googly eyes at him in PTA meetings.

"Mr Hope," Cyrus replied, not awaiting any further conversation, walking back to the table and taking a spot opposite his aunt.

Michael's boring small talk began instantly, rambling about school and what occurred today drew Cyrus to sleep. Almost 8 hours of no sleep and this is what he gets? He just sat there pushing potatoes around a half-eaten piece of lasagna.

Aunt Rose, unable to read the room, was happily stuffing her face. She marvelled at her cooking, pretending to be surprised at how mouth watering it was. Her face brought him back to when his dad used to sit where Michael sat. Those were the only times he was happy to have three people at this table.

"So Cyrus, your aunt told me you helped her with dinner."

Aunt Rose tapped him with her shoe under the table, noticing Cyrus' face getting dangerously close to his food in a daze. He faught off the sleep to answer.

"I didn't really do much."

"He's being modest. It had been a long time since we cooked together, hadn't it Cy?"