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◤ 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖔𝖓𝖊: ❛ self-made tragedies ❜ ◢
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NOW AND THEN, IN HER DREAMS WOULD CREEP UP A VISION – A WHISPER IN HER HEAD TELLING HER TO ACT, TO WRITE, TO BECOME. There was ghouls plaguing her dreams, screams and the cold drip of blood against her body, down and down the liquid would stream. Sometimes there was a beautiful vision, like the couple dancing under the moonlight with smiles on her faces and the stars twinkling in the sky – a full moon among it – until she looked down at her own arms and saw her veins turn as black as the night before her.
She never found herself afraid in the nightmares, a common occurrence for so long in her life that she had succumbed to the numbness, hearing the whispers in her head telling her to write down a new spell in her grimoire until finally the ink hit the page and her neat print was creating a new spell that she was sure to be useless in another life. For somebody else that was not her.
The creatures in her mind never scared her either. She had seen the darkest of magic surrounding her, isolating her from warmth. She had seen the deadliest face, the fastest movements to herself. She had seen the eyes of a beast, the cry of the wolf, the inhumanity in its bones. There was no terrifying her through these dreams; they were just visions of the future, of a spell she would create to save someone else in another life that was not her own.
However, some dreams stood out to terrorize her days. They made her jolt at sudden noises, look around in paranoia that the dreams would become real and attack her. She always saw an alter, three witches around it, chanting as the brought down a knife to slaughter a child, she continuously saw the slaughter or a kind, the death of an era, the burning of buildings, which chilled her bones for entire weeks after the visions occurred.
This one, though, was much different. She felt terror because it seemed so real, like for a moment this was not another life but her own, that the hands covered in blood were her own and the body was that empty of life had been done so by her own self. That the power that was riffled through her dreams would riffle through her own skin, into her veins, and flow through them as if they were her original magic.
And when she awoke, there was no spell to be written, no whispers in her head repeating the chant until it was in ink on the paper forever, charmed to never burn, charmed to stay there forever in her bloodline. No, there was just terror.
Her eyes first fluttered to the flower pot she had blooming in her room, right on her bed side table, and how it was seemingly wilted during the night. It was not an unusual act, often times when the visions took over her dreams – especially those more violent and chilling – would make her magic react in the real world and kill every living item in her room. It was why she had the privilege of having her own room when her youngest sisters had to share; her parents could not bear the thought of their eldest daughter killing the others during a dream.
