After School

2.49 Wilson

September 17, 1946: After School

Insane? Perhaps he was.

Insanity was his curse, it was the thing he feared above all else. He would never be cured. The strange thoughts that once sunk him into new realities had taken hold. Each was a florid daydream, not viewed as a movie, but lived in the first person. He was always the main character, elevated and heroic, a delusion of grandeur he supposed. He liked it that way, it was much better than a mundane life. So if the thoughts still came how was he to say he was cured?

A true delusion was a fixed false belief that gained traction, like a tire on the road, it drove a person in different directions, often toward disaster. He became more like a glorious Ferris wheel, taking him to new fantastic views of life, but unable to alter his direction or fundamental beliefs. He was stone-cold sane. In fact, he wagered he was safer from insanity than anyone else. Others could still fall and become lost in the mental maze, but he couldn't.

"Wilson. Ravens or crows?"

Her sharp voice cut his thoughts. He was sprawled on the floor, stuck in a nightmare. He weakly tilted his head and stared at the woman that peered down at him. He expected to be instantly drawn in by her piercing violet eyes as he usually did, but surprisingly he wasn't. He squinted at her dim orbs, before realizing her violet eyes were gone.

"Mother? Is that truly you?" he croaked, slowly lifting his back off the floor. His entire body ached and he fell onto the ground again. "It cannot be, for last I remember, my mother's eyes were violet," he muttered under his breath.

"Ravens or crows?" the Witch repeated, her tone gentle and devoid of its usual sternness.

Wilson furrowed his eyebrows and blinked repeatedly, wondering if he was hallucinating. When the Witch jabbed his ribs with her feet, he realized he was not.

"I don't know. Crows?" he answered aimlessly, a dumbfounded expression spread across his face. "Is there supposed to be a correct answer? Those two birds are not comparable. It's unfair," he said, rubbing his eyes to get a better look at the woman. There was no more denying it, she was the Witch.

The Witch sighed and dropped to her knees. She placed her palm on Wilson's bloody forehead. "Incorrect. It's neither ravens nor crows, as I, the Pagan witch knows. However, given the current state of things, that is a paradox. I am no longer a Pagan witch, so the only person in the world who truly knows is Yuta the Witch."

At the mention of his name, Wilson's eyes flew open. "Yuta... where is he?" he frantically asked, as his blood pressure rose and boiled against the surface of his skin.

"You will never learn the answer to that ravens or crows rhyme, Wilson," the Witch said mystically, ignoring his comment. "Because soon, Yuta will no longer be a Pagan witch. Soon, there will be no more Pagan witches. So the answer to that question will remain unidentified-"

"But where did Yuta go?!" Wilson interjected harshly, lifting his head. "And why are you here? Where are your violet eyes?" he asked frantically, sitting up hastily.

As soon as he jerked upwards, all the pain that was numb to him before suddenly bombarded his senses. Wilson squeezed his eyes shut and groaned as he waited for the anguish to subside, but it never did. The pain rushed through his body like an igniting fire, scorching and wounding his nerves. Never had he ever experienced such agony in his lifetime. His jaw clenched and he grabbed a fistful of hair to ease the agony, but it barely worked.

"Wilson," the Witch said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Yuta defeated you. He was the one who caused you all these wounds. He fled, although I will not tell you where. I made a promise."