Page 3 of Bewitching Her Monsters

WALKS INTO A BAR

JADE

Slamming my teacup down a little too hard onto my banged-up writing desk, I curse my continued writer’sdetour.

I shuffle out of my writing cave and into my bedroom, flopping onto my disheveled queen bed with a grunt. I pull the tangled blanket over part of my body and give up on the effort it will take to completely cover myself up.

Maybe I should make my bed once in a while?

But what’s the point in keeping it tidy when it’s just me here now? Besides, I take about five to ten power naps a day, anyway. Sometimes I believe I must be a damn cat trapped in a human body.

Now I’m wondering about the various animal shifters and what combination of fancy peens I could use in my next book.

Speaking of animals, I need to feed my horde of rescues. Groaning, I lift myself off the bed to slip into the spare bedroom, where I have my odd collection of friends.

My guinea pig squeaks as soon as he sees me. He’s one of the extra fluffy breeds, reminding me of the ‘Trouble With Tribbles’ episode from the first Star Trek series—a mop of fur with legs.

I open up Trouble’s cage and lift him out to give him plenty of affection, holding him to my chest and giving several kisses on his little head. “How are you doing today, buddy?”

Trouble squeaks again, and I swear in my head I hear him tell me he’s fine, but I get the mental image he wants food. Sometimes I wonder if it’s just my imagination or if I’m really picking something up.

Animal whisperers are real… right?

I blow off this thought as nothing more than my overactive imagination. I’ve always had a crazy mind. It’s why I’m an author.

However, my abuela told me stories when I was a kid that she was a powerful bruja—a witch. She passed away when I was little, so unfortunately, I never had the chance to know her as well as I would have liked. From what I remember, she was an intense character, beautiful and strange. My mother often said I inherited my grandmother’s eccentric ways. Since she hated her mother, she was not happy about that.

But my mother isn’t wrong that I’m an oddball. When I was little, I believed I could see all kinds of crazy stuff. I thought I saw auras, glowing strings connecting people, and swirling energy in the air.

I believed sometimes I could see what people were really like on the inside—glowing eyes, fur, and even monstrous faces. No wonder I used my imagination to make up stories for a living.

When I was around eleven years old, my mom screamed at me, telling me I couldn’t see what I was seeing. She cursed and ranted for an hour straight, telling me that she wasn’t going to let me be a crazy witch like her mother.

So, from that day on, I forced my wild imaginings to stop. Mostly.

But also I was just distracted by my hormones at that point in my development too.

I’m brought back to the present as my rabbit does zoomies around her cage, trying to get my attention. Without a voice, she usually rampages around to communicate her need for attention.

“Sorry, Sage.”

I set Trouble down in his habitat with a last pet, and give him a healthy serving of food and an apple slice for a treat.

Sage stands on her hind legs and scrambles to take the raisin I pass over the wire fence. Her soft furry lips brush against my fingertips, but she is always gentle, no matter how excited she is to get her goodies.

I open the door to her cage and give her the evening dose of attention, snuggling her and rubbing her soft ears.

I glance at the clock and realize I’ve wasted the entire day sitting at my desk and not writing much at all. However, I did get some edits completed on my other book due to be released next month.

And… I forgot to eat all day, and it’s close to midnight.

After giving the others their food and love, I wander into the kitchen and find I have nothing much for a human in the fridge.

I haven’t exactly been taking care of myself in the last few months since Rob left. And if I’m being honest, I wasn’t great at it when I was with him. It’s not like he kept me balanced. He wasn’t the best guy to rely on for… anything.

Without someone to remind me to take a break, I get so deep in my tunnel-vision that I forget the world outside my stories exists. Hence, the hunger pangs right now.

I know my chronic self-neglect has got to be addressed—mañana.

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