After School

2.34 Wilson II

September 3, 1846

A black rose and a marked book were in his grasp.

Wilson II arrived at Willesden high school, a huge grin on his face. This was the purpose he had to fulfill. This was the year he had been looking forward to since the day he was born. This was the tradition that had been passed down from generation to generation in his cursed family. His father in 1646 and 1746, his grandfather in 1446 and 1546, his great-grandfather in 1246 and 1346, and now him. His dates are September 3, 1846, and September 3, 1946.

His father gave him those dates. Wilson was born on September 3, 1746, because his father had fulfilled his final duty. If Wilson did the same, this year and a hundred years later, he too would be rewarded with a son to live on for the next two hundred years and pass the legacy.

It was the only life he had ever known.

The young man that appeared to be twenty years old, was actually a hundred. His auburn hair appeared blonde at certain angles billowed in the light breeze. His smile widened into a chivalrous pearl-white grin, that reached to the depths of his alluring green eyes. His presence in the middle of the courtyard was vibrant compared to the grim atmosphere. Although he wore a bland trench coat, his being was exuberant, much to the gray clouds distaste.

He stood there, peering into the grayness, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream.

Amongst the dimly lit break of dawn, stood a gray Victorian-style school building. Wilson's chest puffed outwards with anticipation as his eyes darted from cracked windows to withering shrubs. He would be teaching students here for a hundred more years. Except, this year would be different. This year, he would be completing the first half of his life long mission.

Before he could enter Willesden, a pair of skeletal hands tapped his shoulder.

"Wilson Stevenson II," the woman behind him said, as he turned to meet her piercing gaze. Her hands were folded neatly in front of her black dress, that had smears and tears as if it had been weathered by centuries of current. Strands of her obsidian hair billowed in the autumn breeze, while the rest of it was tied back in a tight bun. Although, her most defining feature was the violet eyes that watched the Stevenson's like a hawk, for millenniums.

"Witch," he responded, a devious smile spread across his face.

"Why must you call me a witch out in the open?" she asked, furrowing her eyebrows. "I am your mother."

Wilson chortled and shot the Witch a superior look. "Although the witch purges have mostly died out, I have lived through the 18th century, Witch. I know you and I will be shunned if anyone finds out you are my mother, who also happens to be a witch. I figured that simply calling you a witch will jeopardize you, not me," he remarked, smirking.

The Witch arched her eyebrows, in the taunting manner that Wilson detested. "You must admit to yourself, Wilson Stevenson II, that this is quite ironic. You hate your witch mother, yet you are eager to receive her Pagan powers today," she retorted, unfazed by his unruly behaviour.

Wilson pursed his lips and scoffed defensively. "I have been waiting for this day for a century. There is a difference," he pointed out.

The Witch shook her head, her lips twitching into a sly smile. "I have been waiting for my dreams to be fulfilled for much longer than you. A century compares little to a megaannum," she cheekily responded.

It seemed the Witch knew she had angered Wilson because before he could furiously retort any further, she swiftly swerved the topic of conversation. "Give me that book," the Witch abruptly ordered as she outstretched her marked palm.