Day ten, and another nod to classic American horror, this time from the late twentieth century.
This is one of those weird, spare pieces which I've come to favor for this project.
It was funny, in a way that wasn't funny. They'd called her "witch" for so long, but now they wouldn't be.
Now they'd be calling her something else.
She went back to the scene of the crime because that's what felt right. To come back. The place looked different by daytime. No mystery, no magic. Nothing romantic. Just dirty, old, abandoned. What had once been a home, was now just a place. And not much of a place at that. Just a basement window leading downward, downward like Persphone walk, downward the way Orpheus followed Eurydice, downward.
Downward like Inana, shorn of her jewels, her clothes, her power.
Downward the way that she had fallen.
And no, what she did wasn't a fall. It's not like she believed the gym teacher when he said that one act would ruin them, the same way he said that one joint would lead to a lifetime of addiction. No, it was a fall because she'd given in.
Because they'd wanted it, she hadn't.
That she only went along with it because she was tired of being called a witch.
There are worse things to be called.
It was funny, in a way that wasn't funny. She kept thinking this as she climbed through the basement window of the abandoned house, into the familiar place with the old, stained mattress and earthy, salty, sour smells overlaid with blood and sweat and what they did here last week.
She kneels before the stained mattress, strikes a match.
It's funny, in a way that isn't funny that her name is Caroline and not Charlie. She'll think about that often, after.
Now, there's just her, down here.
One step closer to the underworld.
The flames rise around her, cleansing the space.
Leaving her alone
with her anger.