Your knife, my back

Your knife, my back

☣

Now, I am going to right the wrong I did when instead of banishing him from my city, I invited him to play. An invitation is a powerful thing. It is a key that can never be taken away when it is given. And for the atrocities to stop hurting my city, I have to stop the madness that creates them.

In the half-light of the morning, the street is eerie. It isn't just that it is a still day; the air simply doesn't move. The leafy avenue is bereft of noise as if every murmur and rustle is stolen away in the night. The sky is empty, not just of birds, but of clouds also. There is no weather at all; even the moonlight feels cold on this summer night, sending shivers down my spine.

The witching hour has begun and with it also my revenge. He will feel the wrath of all the pain caused. I will make sure of it.

I walk on the empty streets, my path set, my mind made up. The full moon shines down on the sidewalk, making the shadows dance around me. Another kind of life wakes up in these wee hours of the day, a shadowy life, full of dangers and madness; full of revenge and regrets.

Slowly, I am not hurrying because I don't want the eyes of creatures more powerful than me to take notice of my presence, I make my way to the forest at the edge of the city.

Wisps of blue and green magic appear, emanated by the ancientness of the forest. This place isn't the forest that is known by the citizens of the city. That one, the safe, calming forest with birds singing and squirrels chasing one another has been replaced by this mythical place. This is a spot where magic reigns. The duds – people without any magic abilities - that have the misfortune to wander at this hour at the edge of the forest are lost forever in its claws. Some of those that enter willingly - the ones that believe are powerful enough to enter and conquer the power – end up feeding the never-ending well of the forest magic. But some, very few, the ones that are powerful enough thrive in this weird, twisted place.

I stop at the edge of the forest. I feel its hunger, and it makes me want to turn back. But I can't. The guilt is too much to bear. It weighs on my soul much more than the ominousness of the forest.

I inhale before making the first step.

I bow my head, passing through the low branches, letting the magic engulf me. There is a secret to forcing the forest to welcome you. You have to let its magic pass through you, to steal secrets dear from your soul. The price of entrance is your identity. Everything that makes you be you is devoured by this forsaken place. It is infusing your body with power while taking everything that made you need that power in the first place.

You have to let everything go.

Just like I am doing right now.

Every time a branch, a leaf, a blade of grass touches me, I lose a little bit of myself.

The first time I lose my memory of finding my familiar. It is an obsidian cat that transforms into a crow and a bunny. I was so glad when I got it. This cherished memory slips my mind forcefully, ripped by the thorns of a Citrus tree. I stop; my foot in the air, frozen on the spot, the thorn drinking the bright blood from my left shoulder. But the words come back, and with them, the breath that stuck in my throat is expelled. My foot hits the ground, while my body shudders.

The first time is always the hardness, the most painful. No matter how willing I am to part with my memories, the first time claws at my mind, leaving me bleeding in more ways than one.