Teen Witch's Survival Guide: Chapter 1

This entry is part 1 of 9 in the series Teen Witch's Survival Guide

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In my first memory, I stand in a doorway. Mother yells, while Dad tries to calm her. My tiny legs wobble as I try to stay as quiet as possible. Even as a child, I knew I needed to listen.

“You travel the world, any one of those towns could be her new home. She doesn’t have to haunt us,” Mother screamed.

“Lean doesn’t haunt us!” Dad argued.

“She doesn’t haunt you! You’re gone, doing whatever the hell you want while I’m left caring for her. And for our real children.” I remembered the way her black hair floated out over her shoulders, flaring like an angry cat.

“She is our real child!” Dad snapped. I’d never seen him that angry.

Mother scoffed. “I’ve told you she’s a bastard. I wish she wasn’t my blood, so why do you pretend she’s yours?”

I didn’t know it, but that moment became the pattern for my life. I was a bastard- something decided for me and nothing I could fix. Born into a world that shunned me for it.

Mother died three weeks later of a mysterious illness. She lay heaving in bed, eyes fixed on me with hatred.

My brothers stayed at her side, but she wouldn’t acknowledge them. She denied me the courtesy of leaving me in peace. By existing, I had ruined hers.

I found it a valuable lesson as I grew. The town hated me. My brothers and father were heroes, but I was born outside the natural order. Nothing I did could change that.

But feeling unnatural doesn’t stop me from running out of strawberries. It’s been two weeks since Dad left on his latest hunt, and now I must make a market run. I should have checked before I started making the cake. Now, we’re out of strawberries.

I glance out the window at the sunny day. It’s perfect weather for foraging, and I’ve found wild strawberries before in the woods. The choice is simple. I grab the empty basket and hum a tune as I pull on my shoes. It’s a tune the market lady sang last week, though I can’t recall the words. I linger in the doorway, scanning the path for any sign of my brothers or Dad. The thick trees arch over it, creating the perfect stage for their return. But they don’t come, and fifteen and a half isn’t worth celebrating anyway, so I begin my search.

I walk around the back of the house into the dense woods. As a child, I knew these woods intimately and had a favorite clearing where I spent most of my time.

Right from the dead oak, past the patch of elderberry and through the tangle of vine-chocked birch. There was once a path in the ground worn by my feet, but now I stumble through thick underbrush like a newborn deer.

The clearing remains: a meadow scattered with tiny purple flowers, lined by brush, blossoms, berry bushes, and dense thickets. Five years pass, and it’s unchanged. The circle of mushrooms still sits at the center. A fairy ring, Father called it, forbidding me from coming back.

I walk toward the strawberries-small shrubs shielded by taller plants. The leaves bristle, daring me to disturb their charges. Gently, I pick the tiny crimson berries and place them in my basket.

Behind me, there is a faint yelp, a tiny, searching cry. As I spin to face the sound, berries tumble from my basket and my foot snags on a root. The baby bear bounds forward happily to claim the fallen fruit. I freeze, scanning the woods for any sign of its mother.

The cub nudges my foot before she appears, charging at me, large as a horse cart. My life flashes before me-the irony strikes: born to a mother who hated me, dying to a mother protecting her own. I picture my family coming home to an empty house, never learning my fate.

My hands fly up on instinctively, a futile shield. Green energy bursts from my fingers, wrapping the bear in light, lifting her, then dropping her softly.

The mother bear pushes to herself upright and studies me. I hold my glowing hands in front of me. She nods once then turns and vanishes between the trees.

My breath comes fast and erratic, as I stare at the glow.

The world blurs. Colors swirl like galaxies before my eyes. Energy surges through me, and when I gasp for air I can taste pine and cedar.

I feel my body go limp and hit the ground.

Editor: Lucy Cafiero