Hey there! Here's a lovely little piece on my ever-depressed young witch/werewolf, Cleo!
Cleo sighed heavily. She glanced around at the cheery lights, the fire blazing in the hearth, the smell of pumpkin spice coming from her favorite candles…everything was right, so why wasn’t she happy? Her family was out of town for the holidays, so she had the house to herself. Not that they knew that. She hugged her red sweater tighter to her skinny form and carried her mug of apple cider over to the couch. The cat was nowhere to be seen. No surprise there.
She wrapped her sweater-covered hands around the mug and sipped it, scorching her tongue. Double sigh. She flicked her wand at the stereo and Christmas music with the lilting tone of the Celtic women drifted into the living room. Outside, it was cold as a fridge, but no snow. It never snowed in Limerick, though it rained a good deal, probably contributing to their sky-high suicide rates.
She shook her head. She’d come here to have a nice warm evening. So, like all her plans, it was going great. She set her mug down and picked up the crumpled up bit of parchment she’d set on the coffee table earlier. It was clear by the way it was wrinkled and beaten she’d read it dozens of times, but she read it again, drinking in the words like a dozen cups of rich apple cider. It was the last bit that really made her heart warm: With love from the deepest depths of my heart, Rackal.
Even now, it made that stupid, silly smile cross her face which would make her die of embarrassment if Rackal ever saw. She held the parchment to her regrettably flat chest. Rackal. Her…what? Friend was too casual for what they were. And yet, she hesitated to use ‘boyfriend’. It too, seemed inappropriate for her relationship with the Orro heir. And they’d never actually been on a real date.
“Oh, who cares?” she breathed to herself. She cast a dismal look down at the letter. If only he were with her now! But no…she wouldn’t want that. Then he’d have to see this little hovel where she’d spent her childhood, and there would be questions. Always questions. Not just Rackal, but everyone. With those ridiculous, concerned looks on their faces. Like by growing up poor, she was automatically bound to have psychological issues.
Again, she shook the thoughts from her mind and laid back on the worn but comfortable couch. For the first time in weeks her toes and fingertips didn’t feel like icicles, her breath wasn’t visible inside and her stomach was full. She really had nothing to complain about. She thought about turning on the TV and watching some cheesy Christmas specials, but for now she decided to just listen to her music. She picked up the letter and read it again. She’d memorized it the first run through, though, so she didn’t have to read it to know what it said. But it was something else letting her eyes skim over Rackal’s elegant, careful script. It was more like the words were from him, then when she simply recalled them from her memory.
Had she replied? She couldn’t remember. She must have. She was terrible about getting back to people. She was so busy! Especially now that she was balancing multiple part-time jobs, trying to get a hold of that scientist in Romania and having to keep up payments on her decrepit old apartment. No wonder she’d broken into her parent’s house. Suddenly, she was gripped by a terrible fear that she hadn’t replied. What would he think then? It was Christmas and she didn’t even reply to his letter? She’d kept them all. They were all stowed in a water-proof box beneath her bed back in the apartment, and she’d started marking the ones she’d replied to, but then she’d forgotten to mark them. She must have replied to this one. It was so heartfelt. And the invitation to come over was so sweet, even though he must know she’d never on her life take it up. The less his parents knew of her, the better. In fact, she’d prefer to stay off their radar altogether. Would she kill and die to spend Christmas with Rackal, whether it be in his lovely mansion or a cardboard box? Yes, absolutely. Would she put up with the insults, snide comments and general hostility that was sure to come of her appearing anywhere on the Orro property? No, not a chance. She took enough abuse already without welcoming it. I’m sorry, love, she thought with chagrin.
Drawing the quilt over herself, she curled up on the couch and carefully folded Rackal’s letter, setting it on the table, but just as quickly snatching it back and placing it beneath her pillow, where her hand could rest on it. Perhaps, miles and miles away in London, Rackal could feel that she was thinking of him. She hoped so.
