Chapter 81: A Peaceful Afternoon
**Dorothy’s Perspective**
The afternoon was tranquil, as serene as a still lake. Yet, that peace was continually punctured by Grandmother’s shrill voice echoing through the house, shattering any illusion of calm..
“I’ve said it a thousand times! Don’t put those disgusting weeds on my windowsill!”
Her volen
thundered as she stormed into the room, carrying my carefully arranged herbs in her bony, trembling hands. Without a care, she hurled them onto my bed, the sharp edges of the leaves grazing my cheek. She seemed entirely oblivious to my presence, though I was clearly lying there, engrossed in a book.
“These abominations are vile! Filthy! Reeking of evil! They’ll curse our family and bring us nothing but misfortune. And it’s all your fault, you treacherous little witch!”
of
Her face flushed with anger, and her chest heaved like an ancient bellows on the verge collapse. Every time she raged like this, I couldn’t help but fear that one day her fury might actually consume her.
I kept my composure, though it took every ounce of self–control. Quietly, I began gathering the scattered herbs, murmuring softly, “These are just harmless hemostatic herbs, Grandmother. They’re for an elective course at school. My teacher has already explained their uses in great detail. They pose no threat to anyone.”
“Oh, really?” she spat back, her voice dripping with scorn. “This is what the world has come to! The pack has forgotten how deceitful witches and wizards are. Schools now openly teach children to dabble in poisons and black arts, and no one bats an eye! The werewolves are
doomed!”
“It’s just a hemostat!” I protested, my voice rising slightly despite myself. Who wouldn’t be frustrated after being subjected to constant lectures and criticisms every single day of the year?
Her eyes widened in exaggerated shock, as though I had just committed an unforgivable crime. “How dare you raise your voice at me, you ungrateful wretch! Without me, you’d have been roasted and served as dinner to the devil by your heartless parents!”
“They’re not like that!” I retorted, anger bubbling to the surface. “If you hadn’t forbidden. them from coming back to see me, do you think I’d choose to live here with you? Your endless ‘purification rituals‘ haven’t cleansed anything except my patience. All they’ve done is leave. me scarred!”
Her face turned crimson as she screamed, “How dare you! The filthy witch’s blood in your veins has clearly taken over. You’re no granddaughter of mine! The devil has claimed your already!”
LAME
She ranted on about my supposed betrayal and the inevitable downfall of the werewolf pack. Tuning out her hysterics, I gathered my herbs and stormed out of the house, desperate for some fresh air and solitude.
The suburban dirt road stretched out before me, flanked by patches of wildflowers swaying gently in the breeze. A few bees and butterflies flitted about, their presence offering a stark contrast to the oppressive atmosphere I had just escaped.
Where could I go? The small two–story house I lived in felt more like a prison than a home. But was there any place in the world where I truly belonged?
I walked aimlessly for a while before settling on a patch of soft grass. The quiet surroundings were a balm to my frayed nerves. Here, at least, there were no shouting voices, no accusations, and no silver crosses boiling in holy water..
From my bag, I pulled out the book I’d inadvertently brought with me: *Principles of Spiritual Sorcery*. I’d found it among my mother’s old belongings, though the inscription on the title page indicated it had once belonged to my father.
He was a wizard, a powerful one by all accounts, renowned for his mastery of sorcery and his mysterious ways.
The thought of him brought a pang of melancholy. What were my parents doing now?
Mu memories of my 1
were faint, like shadows at dusk. The last time I saw her, I was barely three years old. The small photograph of her hanging on the wall had faded with time, its colors leached away. Neither of my parents had ever reached out to me–not a phone call, not a letter, not even a magical missive that one might expect from beings of their kind. It was as if I didn’t exist to them anymore.
Had they moved on? Started a new family? Forgotten about the child they’d left behind in werewolf territory?
When I was younger,
these thoughts haunted me endlessly. Occasionally, I’d voice them to Grandmother, only to be met with harsh rebukes. If she was in a particularly foul mood, my musings would earn me another of her exorcism rituals.
One drunken night, her slurred words revealed a bitter truth: I looked exactly like my father. It wasn’t hatred for magic that drove her actions–it was hatred for him. She despised seeing his reflection in me,
and she lashed out accordingly.
Lying on the grass, I gazed at the sky, its endless blue unmarred by clouds. A strange thought crept into my mind: perhaps this wouldn’t be such a bad place to stay forever.
Surrounded by flowers and butterflies, a girl could close her eyes and drift away under the warm sun. It would be a peaceful, poetic end.
Just as I was sinking deeper into this morbid reverie, a familiar voice jolted me back to reality.
“Dorothy! Hey! Over here!”
I sat up, squinting against the sunlight. Running toward me was Thelma, her golden hair catching the rays of the sun and forming a halo around her head. She looked like an angel stepping out of a Renaissance painting, her bright smile radiating warmth.
For a moment, I stared, dumbfounded by the contrast between her radiant presence and the gloomy thoughts that had consumed me moments ago.
Alright, I decided
Perhaps today wasn’t the day to give up.
At the very least, I owed it to my friend to greet her. That was the polite thing to do, wasn’t it?
