When I was a kid, I thought my mom was normal. Nothing was wrong when she forced me onto my knees to pray for health and shelter to the pale blue vase she’d tuck under her arm and bring everywhere. Or when she’d stay up all night studying her ‘spell books’ instead of sleeping. Or screaming at me if I tried to play with her stash of random trinkets.
It was normal for my mother to pick out junk from dumpsters claiming it was treasure. And it was normal when she left me alone in our cramped apartment for days on end to go attend a witchcraft convention.
It wasn’t until my mother was deemed unfit to take care of me and I was brought to a new family I realized how wrong I was. My adoptive parents tried to give me what my mother hadn’t, but the damage was already done. I had to attend therapy years to undo the trauma my psychotic mom had given me.
I didn’t ever want to see her again, going through great measures to avoid the slums scattered across my city. She usually set up camp there when she ran out of money, something about trashy alleys having a strong ‘aura’. Strong odor, too.
Well, I was taking the bus home from work on a cool spring night. I’d had an intense volleyball practice a couple hours prior. And on top of that, the Burger King I work at was packed when I got there. I just wanted to go home and sleep my life away in my fantastic bed, not feel pressure worth the weight of the world to get into a decent college on my shoulders.
I must have dozed off, because when I woke up we were driving past the city’s richest neighborhood. My stop was at the other end of the city.
Great, now I’d have to either walk all the way home or wait for my adoptive parents to pick me up. I went with the second option.
I plopped down on a nearby bench, under the flickering light of a dying street lamp. I texted my parents what had happened and where I was. Dave, my adoptive father, responded to my message immediately, saying he’d be there to pick me up soon.
After waiting in the same spot for a couple of minutes, I decided to explore the block. I’d never been in this extravagant neighborhood, after all. When I got to the end of the street, I pulled out my phone to check the time.
9:12. I should have been home 20 minutes ago. I sighed, leaning against one of the lamp posts, watching the occasional car pass by. The activities of that day began to catch up with me, and haziness surrounded me.
A loud noise jolted me awake. I peered down the dark alleyway behind me to see where it had come from. My mother stepped out of the blackness, in all her glory.
She hadn’t changed a bit since I’d left, still dumpster diving, living on the streets, and holding onto her satanic vase. I stood there in front of the alleyway, frozen in some emotion I couldn’t name. Not fear, hatred, anger, or even happiness. Something else.
As soon as she laid her pale gray eyes on me, she rushed forward, almost tackling me in the process. The witch grabbed my arm, spluttering curses in a language I didn’t recognize towards me.
I ripped myself away from her and screamed, pushing her backwards. The vase tucked under her left arm slipped, shattering to pieces on the cold concrete. She screamed like a banshee and charged at me.
If it weren’t for Dave, I don’t know what would’ve happened to me. He’d heard my scream while waiting for me in his car and came over to check it out. When he found me, he ripped my mother off of me and brought me back home.
Dave and his wife, Monica, were planning to file for a restraining order the next day. Now I could roam the streets without being afraid of an attack by my mother. She may as well kiss her goodbyes to her only child, because we weren’t ever going to see each other again.
That’s not what happened, though. About a week after the restraining order was issued, I had a small get-together with some friends from the volleyball team to celebrate a victory against our rivals. We were up pretty late the night before, so nobody stayed for too long.
I showered, devoured a granola bar lying on the counter, and curled up into bed, asleep in no time.
A raspy voice awoke me some time later. I couldn’t tell what was being said, as I was still half asleep, but I woke up fast when I recognized my mother’s chanting.
I reached out into the darkness beside me and grabbed hold of my reading lamp, turning it on facing the rest of my room. Its dim light was enough to illuminate the witch.
She hissed as the light hit her face and fell backwards, dropping one of her spell books in the process. I snatched it away from her before she could get it back. Cursing, she scrambled towards one of my windows, which had been shattered all over my floor. I tried to grab at her tattered rags, but she was too quick. In an instant, she was gone.
I sat on the side of my bed, ignoring the cuts left on my feet and the ash that had appeared all over my nightgown. The spell book I held… I remember it from living with mom on the streets. She would recite from it every morning before we ate breakfast. That is, if there was any breakfast to be had.
It’s been a week since I was attacked, and I still have no idea what my mother was trying to do to me. The police have been searching the city for her, but she’s nowhere to be seen. I don’t think she’ll come back after me for a long time. Good riddance.
But still, my questions are left unanswered. I handed over my mother’s spell book to the police as evidence and they have yet to decode it. Dave and Monica are sending me to therapy again now. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep well until my mother is found, if I can even call her that.