Black Magic (Kellic)

6

Ouija boards. You know how most guitarists get pissed because everyone's always asking them to play Smoke on the Water because it 'sounds cool?' That's about what it feels like to be someone that practices magic with ouija boards. Everyone wants for you to prove it. Sometimes, you just need to have a little bit of faith. 

Then again, maybe it's better that people are at least taking some kind of interest. 

"I didn't know that you skipped too," a familiar voice said from across from me. I looked over to see Remington sitting next to me, flipping through a magazine. 

"What? Oh, yeah, sure." I nodded.

"You don't skip, do you? Is this your first time?" He put his magazine down. 

I sighed. "Afraid so."

He smiled. "You get used to it eventually. Any particular reason why you're not in school though?"

"Something happened," I admitted. 

"I understand. I won't make you talk about it if you don't want to."

A barista called out my name, signaling that my coffee had finished brewing. "I'll be right back," I told Remington. I stood up and walked to get my coffee. Upon returning to my table, Remington had taken it upon himself to move closer to me. "So why do you skip?" I asked him.

"I hate the education system. My younger brother is thinking of dropping out himself. I just don't bother showing up. They can't teach me anything useful."

I shrugged, thinking about it. "I guess that's sort of true."

"We haven't really formally gotten to know each other. I told you that I'm in a band. Now you tell me something about yourself." He made a welcoming hand gesture.

I guess it couldn't hurt to tell him something. "I'm a pagan." Of course that's the first thing I said. I wanted to take it back.

Remington nodded slowly. "Right, right. A pagan."

"You have no clue what that is?"

"Not at all. What is a pagan?"

"A pagan is someone that believes in magic, and spirits. There are several different types of us out there."

"And what would you be?"

"I don't really think that there's a name for someone like me. I just practice black magic."

"Then you don't believe in spirits?"

"Oh, I believe in spirits. There are spirits in everything."

"Is there a spirit in me?"

"Of course."

"Is it good or evil?" 

I thought for a moment. "Human spirits are different. There's no definition of true good and true evil when it comes to people. Evil people can still do something good, and good people can still do something evil. It's very complicated."

"Then do you believe in the Devil?"

"Of course. I don't worship him, but I have strong opinions." I shook my head. "But paganism and satanism are different. Pagans don't necessarily worship Satan, and satanists don't necessarily practice black magic."

"You said that there's no true good or evil inside of people. But then you said that there are evil and good people. How do you know if someone's good or evil if you can't tell by their spirit?"

"Actions speak the truth. If a person does more of one thing than the other, then that helps to determine which way they go."

"Can you speak to anything that's dead?" He asked the question with a fear in his tone, as though it were the wrong question to ask.

"Yes. There are many means that can be used to speak to those that are no longer on this planet with us."

"So then if you believe in spirits, how is that any different that Christianity?"

"Christianity states that spirits move on to either eternal happiness or eternal suffering. In pagaism, there are many debates on what happens to a spirit after the vessel that it's in dies."

"What do you believe?"

"Do you really want to know?" I've never known anyone to have ever been so curious about my religion and beliefs.

"Of course. Please, please tell me." He looked at me with pleading eyes. So honest.

"I think that the spirits move on. They stay here until they decide to move on to the next vessel. That's why we can communicate with them."

"Have you?"

"Yes. I believe that there is an evil spirit living in my house, and I've had many a conversation with it."

"How?"

"The simplest way to talk to a spirit, through ouija boards."

"Do you know any others?"

"There are many others. But the complexity definitely does determine what I can and cannot do."

"Can you summon anything back?"

"You lost someone, didn't you?"

Remington sighed. "I was thirteen."

"What happened?" I asked. It was his turn to answer some questions.

"I'm a bastard's son." He shook his head.

"Your father killed someone?"

"The first time that I've seen him since I was a little boy, and it was because he needed somewhere to hide."

"Who did he kill?"

"And to think that I was still counting on him."

"Who did he kill?" I asked the question a bit more aggressively than last time. 

"Fuck off!" He snapped. "If you want people to want to be near you, then you have to let them have a turn to talk as well." He took a shaky breath.

"Okay. Keep going, then. I'll listen."

"My father didn't kill anyone." He looked at his hand. "It was just a steak knife. He was going to hurt my mom." He curled his hand into a fist. "But it went right through his throat." He pointed to the spot on his own body. "And then he was dead." He shook his head, looking at me with glassy eyes. "But I don't regret it. He was the worst person I've ever known. He walked out on me on my brothers, on my mother."

"You want to talk to him to see if he's angry with you?"

"I want to know that he's moved on. If he's still here, that'll make it that much worse. I'm a sixteen-year-old murderer. I can't live knowing that he never got over it."

I put my hand on his shoulder. "I'll go over there and find out for you, I promise."