Page 152 of Academy of the Wicked, Year One

The ash continues to fall, coating my skin like war paint. Each breath brings the lingering stench of urine, a reminder that some things never change. That no matter how strong I get, and how carefully I plan, there will always be someone waiting to put me in my place.

To remind me of what I am.

Hybrid. Witch. Woman.

Three strikes against me in a world that only tolerates perfection, men, and power.

The flames dance higher, feeding off my fury, my pain, my bone-deep exhaustion with always being the one who has to be strong.

Who has to endure constant ruin.

But what hurts the most is knowing I let myself fall for it again.

Let myself believe in princes and prophecies and the power of magical bonds. As if any of that could overcome centuries of prejudice and the precious point system that seems to matter more than basic decency.

More than me.

The mirror shows tears now, cutting tracks through the ash on my cheeks. I hate them – hate this weakness, this proof that somewhere deep inside, that stupid, hopeful girl still exists.

The one who wants to believe in love, loyalty, and happy endings.

The one who never learns.

“I should burn her away,” I whisper to my reflection, watching the way my left eye struggles with an odd twitch, while my pupils grow wide and odd.

I can see the tint of red begin to manifest in their depths, the odd emotionless reflection of that eye compared to the right that projects the depths of heartache that quake with agony.

My hand rises, igniting the flames that begin to shift until there’s a unique split in the middle of the burning entity. One half of normalcy, the shade of flames dancing with its orange and gold shades, but the other half being the perfect shade of tainted darkness — a balanced mix of purple and black, the blend mesmerizing to acknowledge.

“Burn away,” I whisper again, feeling the tightness in my chest that signifies how close I am to losing control thanks to the pang of hunger and thirst. If I could just get some blood, the hunger wouldn’t be prominent, but how ironic this lesson is turning out to be.

How I set myself up for my own demise.

I can’t drink anyone else’s blood.

I can’t enjoy the taste of normal blood packs.

I’m trapped to never really enjoy the side of myself that I neglect so fucking much because being a witch meant I was close to being a human.

Closer to being human.

And for what?

They don’t want me. Don’t need me.

Neither do the paranormals. None of these elites need my existence, and the reality is, that I’m realizing I may not need to exist at all.

If I can’t be good…and the only choice is to be evil, then maybe I can just end it all now and be reborn as a villain.

The idea is far too tempting, and how the flames almost feel inviting.

They say burning to death is some of the harshest deaths, but then again, it could be worth the punishment. To cleanse away the stench that plagues me.

That haunts me.

It’s too tempting to deny now, and I move the flame closer to my face, thinking melting it away would make me look like the perfect monster I’m going to become.

Arms suddenly wrap around me from behind, halting my descent into madness.

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