Tavern of Witchita

10 | Deformed past

The sunlight seeped through her office windows, bringing light to the herbs that settle in pots. Witchita stood in the middle of the room, her smooth mahogany hair tied sleekly into a ponytail. The witch dropped a couple of items into the cauldron and it bubbled ever so slightly. A cheeky little girl peeked from the office doorway.

“Hello, Mommy

A chuckle leaves the mother's mouth.

“What is it Narra?”

The little girl sauntered over to her mother. She smiled and she clung to Witchita's arm, making the woman yelp in a joking manner. Narra snuggled closer.

“I love you.”

Chuckling, Witchita ruffled her daughter's hair and covered the cauldron with its lid. Narra had always had a way with words.

Kneeling to Narra's height, the mother grins.
“Really?”

Confused, the little girl tilted her head, wondering what was happening to her mom's memory.

“Yes, didn't you know that?”

“I didn't know that.” Witchita joked and her daughter giggles.

“Cheeky mommy.”

“Cheeky sweetie.”

The brunette little girl sat by her home's doorway, as she usually does. Her focus was aimed at a rather thick book that she held firmly with the support of her lap. Her eyes trail slowly on every sentence, yearning to indulge herself in the world of fiction.

Books have always kept her company when her mother would leave for work. The story inside it seemed to be bigger and greater than Chrono itself. It made her feel less lonely.

The giggles of the children running by ruin her reading occasion. Her coal eyes peek out of the hefty book, watching as girls and boys her age run after each other, tumble as they try to snag one's shoulder. They appeared to be enjoying their game.

Her eyes dropped and she felt herself shrink, a cold atmosphere tickling her skin. The sense of loneliness grew steadily until it dominated her emotions. What started as a cold feeling became so strong that she felt the need to find a friend, someone who will talk to her, and even share a joke. She had no one like that, other than her mom.

On an average week, Narra would only leave the house to buy groceries; going home to return reading books, watering plants, and spending way too much time practicing potions.

There was no one to accompany her today, just like any other day where her mother was absent. Not even the children who play near her noticed Narra's existence – at least that's what she thought.

“Oh-”

She felt a soft force hit her leather boots. The girl raised her book, only to discover a cherry-red ball.

Narra shifted her book sideways, following the possible trail of the ball. It led to a small group of little girls; most of them let out a whimper upon meeting Narra's gaze.

The little witch set down her book. She picked up the bouncy sphere and made her way towards the children, who watched in concern.

Narra's lips curved up to a small smile, handing the ball over. The little girl up front gently took it; her actions hesitant.

“Uhm…Thank you.”

Before the little Narra could even nod, the children hurried away from her, their panting evident, holding looks of fear.

Her lips formed into a grimace and she averts her gaze to the stone flooring. Shame and sadness take hold. Her bottom lip quivered; tears threatening to spill.

For as much as she wanted to join their play, the children feared her. Her mother had a relation to the king, and that worried other citizens because of their authority.

“Ma'am, orders are orders.”

“Please, sir! I'm the palace magician. I should at *least* be able to have a say on this.”

“Ma'am! Just as I said – ”

Narra tensed up, hearing her mother's voice – not in warmth, but distress and irritation.

The little girl whipped her head to the source of the sound. There, on the road to the palace, stood her mother arguing with a nobleman. She felt a shiver… as if something was crawling through her very being, bringing her nothing but shame. The girl returned to lowering her head.

--

And days passed as they usually do.

Narra spent her time studying at home, and when her mother returned, the little girl would rejoice and play until bedtime. They continued that perfect cycle, only tweaking it every once in a while.

But then, Narra left her home to read books outside, only to find a strange happening the little girl couldn't quite grasp yet.

“Huh?…Wha?”

A mob gathered at the entrance of the main castle. The yells of gruff men and spiteful women succumbing to the atmosphere. Smoke tarnishes the once blue sky and children wail. The heat causes dozens to sweat. A little Narra stood amidst it all, watching the woman she grew up to love, wither.

“Mama…” Her voice croaked as she tried to call out to her mother, yet it fell on deaf ears.

Her eyes were hollow, pained, and sad. The woman's beautiful mahogany that her daughter attained was now disheveled and filthy. The soft-fabric that served as her dress was torn and laced with mud. Her sweet, loving, and always well-kept mother, looked like the exact opposite. But it was her and Narra knows that.

Her hands tremble and her eyes water as the girl reaches out to her mother. The flames burn with colors she never thought to see. With each flare, she knows her what's alight. It was like a bonfire, but this was no celebration, this was the burning and torture of all her memories, love, and her only inspiration in life. This was her mother. Why are they doing this?

Narra knew her mother was in immense pain, but she was holding it in. Her mother could scream, thrash, and yelp all she wanted, but instead, she chose not to for the sake of her daughter.

Witchita was tired yet she forced a warm smile to her features. It brought the crowd in an uproar and it brings warmth to her daughter. Narra trembled, her eyes sting as it got hard to breathe but she knows she can't stay here.

Tears blind her and Narra turned, running as quickly as her legs can carry her, scurrying through the streets as people bump into the young witch; she perceives.  Images of her mother flash through her mind. To the forest. To the place the storybook sets on.

The pounding noise of twigs and leaves that scrape her skin match with the intensity of her heart throbbing with thick grief and fear. She stumbled into the harsh ground, rocks, and dirt scraping her minor injuries.

It hurt though. Everything hurt. Her head, her legs, her eyes, and her chest. It hurt. It hurt. It hurt.

As much as she tried to hold it in, the pain came out like an uproar from her throat to form a cry of anguish.

The beads of water falling one after another, without any sign of stopping. The muffled sobs wracked against the little girl's chest.

The world turned into a blur and so did the sound. The taste. The smell. Everything was gone. She opened her mouth, and again, she screamed and cried.

For a little girl her age to go through something like this, it's insanely cruel.

A grunt escapes the running girl's mouth as she plunged into the ground, the sense, smell, and sting all back. Vision blurry with tears, Narra forced to push herself up, only to see the bruises and scratches that riddle her body.

She raised her head and everything tones down.

In front of her, lay a tavern the storybook her mother made spoke of. It was pretty. The sun's rays made it prettier. It was made of wood and vines riddle the windows and doors. Ahead, lies a sign.

The Tavern of Witchita.