"Witch" Chapter 1 EDITED

Hey everyone, well when i first submitted chapter 1 of "Witch" i wasn't 100% satisfied with it to begin with, then people started pointing out things that i already knew within myself i had to change, but they also pointed out other things i didnt see, some i agree with and some i didn't. Anyways, here is chapter 1 of "Witch" again, with things taken out, things added, things changed etc. I hope you enjoy it and review.

Witch

Chapter 1

Witchcraft

The wind and rain outside beat steadily against the windows. Like the sound of an army marching itself toward death. My sister Annabelle’s car bumped and slid along the country road.

My jet black hair hung loosely at my shoulders, as my pale fingers danced across the page I was reading, Darcy was climbing out of a lake for the hundredth time. I wasn’t paying attention. I’d read the book so many times before, but I loved it so dearly.

Closing the book and stuffing it into my bag at my feet, my eyes wandered to the constant view I could see outside. Lots of tree’s. I didn’t mind, in fact, forests and hidden places appealed to me greatly.

A pale figure stared at me, my reflection in the glass; my hair, too long for a boy, my skin...too pale to be normal. I’m a freak.[i]

Moving to Canada was my Dad’s idea, instead of commuting between here and New York. We could move up here permanently. I wasn’t consulted, as usual, but I didn’t mind.

The town I was moving to really was quite pleasant when looked at retrospectively. The small town of Berrystone was located in Ontario, Canada. With 3,500 citizens, it was the idyllic setting for my parent’s to set firm roots and for me to come into my own…apparently.

“You’ll love it there,” my mum said to me - repeating her adopted credo since announcing the move.

I was a “tough nut to crack”, - but eventually I succumbed. I had grown to loathe New York; the unavoidable traffic, disgusting manners, the school I went to, the people I grew up with. I loathed it all.

A melancholy approach some would say, but I had never felt truly right in New York, even though I was born there. I’m quiet. I like being alone and I like being isolated and kept in peace.

New York yielded no privacy. Everyone’s problems were always more important than everyone else’s. Eventually, all the voices had collided and began to drone in my head, a monotone voice that wouldn’t stop.

I felt suffocated, stifled in my own head. I was a freak. I am a freak. I had never fit in with people, and after a few years, I just simply gave up. I refused to try and pretended to be someone I wasn’t – I didn’t want to be a ‘Fake’. I didn’t want to be superficial, preening like a Jezebel or doting over my psychique. I didn’t want the only thing I talked about to by sports, sex and alcohol.

I allowed part of my mind to wander to the possibility of being a ‘Fake’ – Would it have been so bad? [i]Of course it would.

Could I learn to live with it? Yes.

Would I sacrifice my self-respect for friends? NO! OF COURSE I WOULDN’T! Well, maybe…

I could never psychially or emotionally bring myself to diminish who i was, if my parents had taught me nothing but one thing, it was that being hated for who you are is better than being liked for who you are not.

However, due to recent events THAT little piece of psycho babble had lost some of it's weight.

The harsh reality that the greatest piece of knowledge people my age could acquire was that of which celebrity was sleeping with whom, and how many times a certain pop star had had his nose under the knife, gave me small comfort. I had matured years before they had, it wasn’t their fault. Their rich families had dragged them up that way, I may have accepted it, even grown to understand it, but I would never, ever be a part of it.

Perhaps my new school would divulge better results? I truly hoped so. My self imposed isolation had worked for me so far, but I was growing tired of being alone. Although I hated to admit it, I longed for friends. Real friends - the kind you can spend time with, trust implicitly, the kind that make you feel normal, the kind that don’t see you as a freak.

I had only ever had two friends, my cat, Tabitha…and Dante. Dante – the longest of long stories.

I couldn’t help but feel slightly eager and not just nervous at the prospect of moving to a new town. I was receiving a fresh start, a new chance to gain friends, and the perfect way to escape my past.

The car jerked to a stop, not wearing my seat belt I jerked forwards spilling coke down my white shirt. Perfect.

This whole situation was tap dancing on my last nerve. I had always been clumsy, from dropping a plate to falling down the stairs. I’d done it all.

Mum smiled as we slid out of the car. “Here we are” taking a moment, she spoke again. “Well, no use standing out here is there?” she said as she led my sister up the stone steps and through the solid oak doors to the manor. The stone and wood structure stood three floors tall, not including the turret, which was to be my bedroom.

The gardens were fairly extensive, rose bushes adorned the right side of the building, as ivy climbed up to the highest window and halfway across the manor. The back garden played host to an apple tree and a couple of pine tree’s, which towered protectively over the building. Despite how foreboding the structure was, my heart began to lighten.

The manor signified my fresh start, a clean slate for me to design anyway I chose. My life would be better. I felt more at ease then I had in years. This house had been in my family for generations, mum grew up here and her mum before that – the scandal my mother, Janet had caused by leaving Berrystone and the manor was famous amongst our family. I looked forward to seeing my grandmother, Marie again. She was set to pass through town in the next few days.

“There’s no place like home” I smiled, the rain was now easing and the wind was dying down as my essence began to relax, “A fresh start” I whispered to myself, it was one of those occasions where one must express a thought out loud to confirm it. It was hard to believe I had finally been given this chance. The fear of ruining it all sat firmly on the periphery of my mind; however, I chose to ignore it. Step one to fresh starts was to leave old fears behind.

Walking into the house, I was welcomed by the smell of fresh fruit and lavender, Dad had bought strawberries, peaches, cherries, apples and grapes at the market yesterday, their smell wafted throughout the near empty house. The lavender was coming from upstairs; Annabelle was already burning her incense and had locked her bedroom door.

I felt sorry for her, she had lost close friends, she actually was someone back in New York, and she had everything to lose. I had nothing to lose.

“Pasta for tea okay Tristan?” my mum shouted from the kitchen. She knew it would be okay with me to have pasta, it was my favourite dish. Closing the front door behind me I quickly glanced around. The floors were hard wood; covered sporadically with old-fashioned rugs of deep red and gold, pictures of family members and my parent’s friends already had adorned the walls. The whole ground floor was open plan, every room had doors of course, but they were double door’s which glided to the side when opened.

The living room was painted a light cream, our black leather chairs sat to face each other and the 90” flat screen TV which was already placed just above the fireplace. I walked towards my mum’s voice, passing the huge Carob staircase and my Dad’s study, into the kitchen.

My mum was a woman of forty-five, and, surprisingly, we looked alike.

I inherited most, if not all, my looks and personality traits from her side of the family. The long dark hair had been in her family for centuries, as had the good cheekbones, the slim figure, the pale complexion and the icy blue eyes. My mum was a chef in New York; she had managed to secure a place in a diner in Berrystone, it was quite a come down for her. My mum had never once expressed her disappointment; she merely swallowed her feelings and continued to do what was best for her family.

Our new kitchen was quite old-fashioned. My jaw dropped and my breathing slowed as my surroundings gleamed in the soft afternoon sun. The sun spilled into the room via the windows above the sink, and the glass in the stable door.

It was small and cosy. Every surface was a deep, impeccably clean tile adorned with various instruments and cooking paraphernalia.

I adored cooking, and I revelled in the knowledge that this kitchen was now mine.

The copper and brass pots hung lazily from a rack above the counter in the middle of the room, as steam poured from three, small silver pots on the stove.

“Yeah, you know me, I love pasta.” I reminded her, stealing a bread-stick from the counter. “Do you want me to set the table?” I asked, biting into the crunching bread-stick. Ever so helpful, utter precision was status quo; dutifully I began opening the cutlery drawer before receiving a response.

I lined the cutlery up on the marble counter ever so gracefully- they had been my great grandmothers so I took special care when handling them. They were only ever used for special occasions; Birthdays, Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter…and now, house-warming.

Solid silver with intricate roses and ivy printed into the handles, they gleamed like smiling teeth as I held them up to the golden honey of the sun. I quickly draped the black oak table in my mother’s best silk dining cloth, along with the crystal candlesticks, which stood illustriously proud above the table. Finally, I began to lay the table properly. Fork on the right. Knife on the left. Spoons aligned above and napkins folded into bishop’s hats beside the crystal glasses. How mundane. How blissfully normal. I began to feel like a 'Stepford Wife', Perhaps my life was faker than I cared to admit? I longed to sweep my hand in the air and have the table ready in seconds. You’ll get used to it.

I bit my tongue, just like I was trained to do. Swallowing my latest independent thought I secretly swore to myself that it would have centre stage, it would be expressed, I would not surrender every part of myself. I needed to wait for my moment, in which my thoughts would be listened to. The idea about the table being done in seconds toyed with my mind until I had completed the task.

Twirling my fingers around my glass, I sat with a seamlessly straight back as Annabelle and my Dad came to dinner, a fake smile stretching brazenly across each of their faces.

Annabelle’s sleek blonde hair had been twisted into a messy bun at the back of her head, wearing blue jeans and a red t-shirt; she was a beautifully messy person. Her eyes were an intense chestnut brown. The only thing that related me to her was the bone white colour of her skin.

Annabelle took more after my dad than my mum, except for the flawlessly slim body and pale skin which remained true and constant to my mother.

[i]Lucky her, she blends into normal society better than most in my family.[i]

My dad, Tom had dirty blonde hair that was short and spiked, wonderfully matching his light tan and footballer physique. I had always respected my dad; he carried the air of someone in charge, and someone in effortless control. He was a person who always saw the best of life, the beauty and absolute enchantment of the world.

How unfortunately naive, if ignorance was indeed bliss, my dad was an ecstatic man.

My mum swept into the room, as Annabelle and my Dad took their seats. A bowl of salad and a bowl of pasta soon adorned the table, the aroma of Italian home cooking, awakened my stomach from its prolonged slumber.

“Honey, this is delicious” my dad complimented, holding up a piece of bread and taking a sip of the blood red wine before him. “Best you’ve ever made” he smoothly added, before fluidly sweeping a fork full of pasta into his mouth.

So normal.

“Thank you” my mum replied, a warm smile crossing her lips as she took pleasure and great pride in making her family happy. “Annabelle, Tristan what do you think?”

“Great mum. Really” I answered a generic response that had been drilled into my very soul from an early age. I would never tell her that the bread was too dry. “The pasta is charming” I added, before smiling and shovelling a fork full into my mouth. The pasta was pretty good, if not a tad too spicy.

“Yes, its lovely” Annabelle said, her voice warm but slightly venomous “But I think it would have been easier to have conjured it.” She added tartly, before taking a sip from her glass as if nothing had been said.

“You know why we can’t use magic” my dad calmly reminded her “It is far too risky.”

“Your Father’s right, you need to learn to live as a human” my mum interjected, obviously ruffled by Annabelle’s comments, but trying desperately to hide it.

“We’re not humans. We’re witches” I murmured in a low voice. “It’s part of us, whether we like it or not.” I stated in a matter-of-fact manner. The voice inside me wanted to scream the words, but my own conscience pulled me back from that precipice.

My mum gaped at me, her chin almost touching the table, if it was any other circumstance I would have laughed, but once again my conscious pulled me back.

The lights in the room seemed so much brighter after this startling revelation, my throat began to grow dry as many minutes passed before, finally, my dad in his infinite display of goodness slashed through the silence like a knife through butter.

“Yes, it is perfectly understandable why you are angry about denying who you really are” his voice was slow and deliberate, “But we can’t risk being caught, this is a small town and people already are talking. We don’t need to give them anymore excuses, especially if it leads him to us”

Annabelle visibly stiffened, gently putting down her knife and fork; she tucked a hair that wasn’t there behind her ear “Fine.” She agreed her voice cracked and emotionless.

The iron noose of secrecy slipped around my neck once again, I wanted to scream and shout, throw things and rain down magic on an unforgiving situation. Despite this, I remained immobile.

“It’s going to be difficult, but we’ll adjust” my mum said, her voice betraying her statement, she didn’t sound confident, but scared. No matter how desperately she tried to hide it. ‘We’ll have to.’

Just like that, my clean slate was gone; perhaps I never really had one in the first place. The familiar feeling of isolation sank back into my mind, my heart felt heavy and dejected.

I was alone once again.

No fresh starts.

No clean slates.

No friends would be made.

“Fine” I whispered, succumbing to my fate.