TW: Swearing, blood, and violence.

I walked past the buzzing lamplights as the plastic bag in my arm swung back and forth. I bought trash bags, but I also bought chocolate bars, chips, and tamarindo candy. I've other hidden snacks in one of the kitchen cabinets that I'm also planning to eat because I simply cannot deal with my emotions for the rest of the night. But I'm thinking of telling Dilara about Grimm and his situation. I don't know why I didn't admit to her earlier that I was looking for something.

My cheeks sting from the cold wind. I stuffed my hands into the pockets of my sweater. I'll tell her all about it as soon as I get home. I'm almost there but I look ahead and notice two men standing near the next lamppost I have to pass. They seem to be having a conversation and look harmless, but my stomach tightens as I get closer.

My feet maneuver from the sidewalk, and I start walking across the street. Footsteps follow behind, my steps quicken as I—

A hot flash almost grazes my skin, I stumble backward. My head snapped toward the burning fence, and my eyes widened. "We've been waiting for you." 

I sprint in the opposite direction until a hard clasp grabs my wrist, I look down and see a brown vine twists up my arm. Another one appears on my left arm.

I throw my hands in the air, tugging the vines, but I'm roughly yanked back like a doll. A pair of arms crossed my body and before I could scream, the harsh vines enclosed my neck and mouth. 

I try squirming away until the warlock presses his mouth against my ear. "It's rude to walk away from someone who is talking to you."

Nausea greets me like an old friend. "Gentlemen, please don't be too hard on her. She has to live a little longer before I kill her." The man walking slowly said. 

He had an accent similar to Refugio and for a brief moment, I miss hearing where my home once was. But this was not the welcome I used to receive. As the man got closer, I took in his appearance. He has short brown hair and a scruffy beard. He is wearing a long black trench coat. I notice the wrinkles near his eyes, he must be older than thirty, maybe mid-40s.

I continued to squirm. "Tranquila, tranquila." (Relax, relax.) He raises his leather-gloved hands in a mocking surrender. He then directs his hand toward the fire and mutters something under his breath, soon the fire is nothing but smoke. He turns toward me, his eyes shimmering in the way when you have won a prize.

He grips my chin, tilting my head to the right. He examines, "Tienes sus ojos. Tienes los mismos lunares. Supongo que tienes su sangre." 

I try to scream but the vines tighten around my mouth and muffle any sounds. He bared his teeth, "Calladita te ves más bonita." (You've his eyes. You have the same moles. I suppose you've his blood. You look prettier when quiet.)

My screams were buried. My teeth bit down on my tongue until I tasted metallic, and rage spilled. 

I want to kill him. I want to cut his eyes out but let them hang from their sockets. I want to pluck his teeth out. I want to scream so loud that not only would his ears bleed but his organs would explode. And the more I fantasized about his death the more I believed I could make it happen. My magic could do it.

He must've sensed it because very quickly he uttered, "Praefoco."

The vines slipped from my mouth but a deep pressure squeezed my throat. Whoever held me dropped me like a parasite and my body collapsed to the ground. Forced-out chokes come out, sharp and painful. I blinked as spots began to appear.

He uttered. "Ojalá que tu padre aparezca...cuando estés muerta." (I hope your father shows up...when you're dead.)

Hot tears prick the corners of my eyes. My father's problems should be his, not mine. I did nothing but be born, I wanted to shout but my lungs were cut.

I'm doomed.

*****

I don't know where I am or how long I've been awake but I think my eyes are open. Faint smells of copper and sweat lingered in the dark, dark, dark room. Everything hurts. My head pounds viciously as if it had been split open and it might have, I can feel hot liquid on the side of my forehead sliding down my cheek. All my bones and muscles were sore and heavy. I can't move—I can't move my limbs.

Somehow I found comfort in the hard floor, it was cold. So damn cold. But I needed to leave, I needed to find a way to get out of this room and get up from this floor. I've to get up but I can't fucking get up. He should've killed me because the pain is intensifying by the second and if he comes near me again, I swear—

TRAITOR.

No.

TRAITOR, TRAITOR, TRAITOR—

No, it can't be.

TRAITOR, they roared like betrayed sisters.

They couldn't be back. The voices couldn't be back but the stabbing feeling inside of my head explains the pain, only they could cause such discomfort. How the hell were they back? How is it possible? A tear ripped through my head again, YOU ABANDON US, they shrieked.

I opened my mouth but nothing came out, my throat was dry like sandpaper.

WE LIVED BY YOU, one of them cried.

They sounded like wounded souls left in the dark and they could be, I knew very little about them. I knew what they sounded like, horror and devastation and they brought into my life. So, I don't feel sorry for them screeching, I feel sorry for my head.

We protected you for so long, they bunched together and if I could laugh I would. Protecting me? Delusional. But you'll be undone now...you could feel it...you'll see it...your true nature, they said in short breaths.

I tried rolling my body but my head fell flat on the floor.

COLD-BLOODED, one sang.

STARVING, one licked.

EMPTY, one whispered.

And they repeated themselves, overlapping one another like hard shoves, colliding and crashing into each other inside the walls of my head. But my ears perked up at the sound of heavy footsteps and the voice rasped, you'll be alone, then I felt them slipping between the shards of my mind I knew nothing about. They left me alone to face my death.

Those bitches.

A click later, the floorboards creaked from the heavy footsteps. I tried turning my head but I think I barely moved at all. Someone was here and they were murmuring like a chant or mantra.

The room responded to the chant as it began to illuminate. My body recoiled and my eyes flinched from the light. Through squinting eyes, I viewed the room but everything was blurred by knots. I think I'm seeing scrawls and scribbles on the wall.

"This is where your father brings the witches and warlocks who come after him. He tortures them first then kills them." 

His steps come from behind. "I plan to do the same. I guess I should give you the name of your killer. I'm Antonio Reyes and I promise to bury your body myself. But first," My eyes land on the figure in the corner. 

"Did you know this is the third time you'll be killed? You first died in Mexico, if I remember correctly your mother pushed out a dead baby twenty-two years ago. You then died fifteen years ago by a mysterious fire. And now you're here, soon to die again. Unlike the previous warlocks, I won't fail."

I don't understand him but I can feel my bones rattling, is it fear or is it power?

He continues, "I think I know how your father did it, how he kept you hidden from the world. He took advantage of your birthplace and he snuck you into this country and you lived for a while, nameless, unknown. But when your name did start appearing your last name was spelled wrong, De Luna." 

He wags his finger. "It's Del Luna, it's missing the 'l.' He did it on purpose which is smart because this country is always misspelling names they don't wish to understand. They make no effort to know who you are, or where you belonged first until of course, they want to. But your father hid you in plain sight and his pride didn't have to suffer, you carried his name. Spelled wrong but still got to keep his daughter."

I'm listening but I feel so lost. Was I not born in this country? I've lived here my whole life. This is all I know. Could it be possible? And my name, my surname is spelled wrong. Why? Why have I died twice? For long have these witches and warlocks been after me? I'm losing my grip on everything.

"You don't know anything, do you? Pobrecita, tus padres te hicieron sufrir más manteniendote viva que muerta. That's your tragedy." (Poor you, your parents made you suffer more by keeping you alive than dead.)

He taunts. "Should I tell you? Do you want to know who kind of brujo your father was before you die?"

I close my eyes. I'm a dead person who hurts. I'm a living person who hurts. And these tangled webs of who I am, who I am supposed to be are hurting me.

I hurt, I hurt, I hurt, and then it spins, I hate, I hate, I hate. 

A/N: I'm sorry I had to split the chapter bc it got too long. ALSO, brujo y bruja = warlock and witch. Don't forget vote & comment! TYSM ♡♡♡