Marked

This dark little piece is a continuation of last weeks story about the witch and her vengeance. It was inspired by the six-sentence-story prompt HARMONY, by girlontheedge, and a few comments that were made on last weeks story concerning revenge.


She scraped a slash across the four lines, and felt a pang of regret as she looked at the scratches that decorated the bulk of her cauldron.
She could remember like it was yesterday, when she had stepped into the pool of harmony to join the order, and the water of purification had turned jet black.
Apologies had been made as she was ushered to the door, and it had taken weeks of crying, begging, before someone would finally tell her why she would never be welcome, why the others would not so much as look at her.
The water had turned because her soul bore a stain, a mark of her her own making, telling all who could see that she had used the gifts she had been given for ill purpose, and nothing she could do would ever remove it, would ever make her what she was before, worthy.
She had gone home and carved the first scratch into the side of her cauldron, making a vow, then and there, if she could not be of harmony, then she would be of vengeance, and as she ran a hand across the hashed pattern on the cauldron, she realized that she had kept that promise far too well…

Vindicta

This incredibly dark little monster was inspired by the six sentence word prompt ingredient by girlontheedge. I immediately went to potion, but I don’t know when it went from potion to this little fic of revenge that is disturbing even to me….


The thorns dug into the soft flesh of her palm as she squeezed the stem of the rose, the final ingredient, a little too hard as she tried to decide if she was really going to do this.

It was overkill on her part, and she knew it, but the memory of his face as he mocked her in front of the crowd of onlookers, pretending as if their relationship had meant nothing to him, that she was just another notch in his bed post, it still made her blood boil.

She tossed the rose into the cauldron, regretting it even as she let it go, but it was too late now, the potion was made, and a small smirk crossed her face as the rising vapour turned to a thick cloud, forming shapes, sharp teeth and claws in the shadows before they skittered out the window.

There was no use in regret, it would change nothing, and James had made his bed, that bright sunny afternoon in the quad when he called her a-, well, he was not undeserving in this.

It wasn’t her fault, as she had learned far too late that with James, even saying no wouldn’t have stopped him, and if what the others had said was true, he was far worse when you didn’t go along with him.

She was pulled from her musings by the sounds of sirens, red lights flashing into the otherwise dark room, and she knew it was over, she wasn’t his first, but she had made sure, she would be his last.