WITCH TRIALS: Hourglass |Book One|

THREE

All I could do was cry. Cry like a little girl, wailing for my Mom and Dad to come rescue me. I kept trying to find an explanation for this, that I was dreaming, that I had fallen too hard and hit my head walking down the bus and my Mom and Dad were at my bedside, holding my hand in theirs, worried about me waking up.

You're awake, Sweetheart. You hit your head, but you'll be fine. I'll call the school and tell them that you can't come tomorrow.

I was praying for that to happen, to see the light and my parents relieved faces. I held my finger to my chest, the pain close to numb from all the other factors. I could feel blood smeared to my face, and a puddle growing beneath me that was dark red. But still, I prayed. Prayed to the Heavenly Father that I had looked up to my whole life, went to him for security, for safety. For hope. But, the longer I prayed, the more and more I realized how truly alone I was. No one was to save me, not God, not my parents, not anyone. This was a godless place.

My finger began to ache, and I had no doubt that a bruise was sprouting on my torso. As the time ticked by, I started to crave the sensation of nothing. The hollowness that embarked inside me carved deeper and deeper, until I was to be nothing but a shell. I craved the feeling of peace, to be with my parent's loving arms, to be away from here. It was like every single thing that had happened to be kicked in, the deaths of my parents, the shock of being thrown into here, seeing somebody dragged away to their demise or maybe something even worse. It had all just...really started making an impact on everything.

I felt sorry. Sorry for everything I had ever done or said to cause my parents to hurt. Like the time I had yelled at my mom for not picking me up after track practice, I remember how clearly the pain showed in her eyes that night. It wasn't even her fault, she didn't know that she was going to work later, her boss told her last minute. But still, I blamed her, and that made her hurt.

I shivered, locking my knees to my chin to feel some sort of security. Blood seeped through the cracks of my hand while I attempted to stop the blood flow, my vision slipping in and out from the world I saw. I fought to keep a grip, noting all the small details. The dark corners where gossamer webs tangled into the bricks, the heavy wooden doors, aged and splintered, and then, a small light.

It took me a moment to realize it was, that it was not my imagination, but a hole. A hole to the outside. It was closer to the ceiling, glowing a vibrant amber of the setting sun, like warm honey. I wanted to reach out, touch it, feel it's light on my face and its warmth. The homey feel I remembered so well, coming home, the welcoming voices of my parents. I yearned for that, their arms around me, telling me that they loved me.

I imagined my Mom, beautiful blonde hair, loving green eyes, and the way that she laughed made the room glow. She could find hope in even the darkest of times. I thought of my Dad, stern features and dark brown hair, yet gentle brown eyes. I could always felt like I could trust him, at least until he started drinking. He had quit when I was born, but when he lost his job, he plummeted. My Mom had done everything she could to make him stop, even threatening to leave him and take me with her. He said he'd stop, but I still saw him drink at night when everyone else was asleep.

I remembered my Dad's eyes, gentle eyes, then how they were viciously ripped from his skull, and I imagined him crying in agony, hands over his now empty eye sockets as he wailed and wailed and wailed. I flinched, a shiver ran down my spine and I fought to keep the image away. I covered my eyes, feeling the blood flush against my skin. My Mom entered my thought, her luminous smile, and then her her agony enriched shriek of pain as the dark figures closed in, casting shadows over her trembling body. The way they nailed her to the wall, blood dripping from the wounds and tears stroking down her face. The slitting of her throat, the writing of the pentacle with her own blood.