Page 8 of Phoenix Academy: Madness

As soon as my rant was done, it hit me. I was alone in this world. My mother was dead. My sister was gone, her body dragged out into the woods. She'd no doubt died afraid and alone, after watching me die, no one around to comfort her.

Shuddering, I drew away from the madman and fell to the floor on my knees, hands pressing against the still-drying blood. He stood up, and for a moment I worried that he was going to attack me. I was so wrapped up in my own grief that I almost didn't care. The thought of dying again didn't worry me.

Instead of attacking me, he walked towards the kitchen like a zombie, his face slack and in a fugue state. I watched him, suddenly curious as he went over to the kitchen table and sat down, pulling a plate towards him.

Padding into the kitchen, I stared down at the table, grief in my throat. Whoever the vacationers were that the Heretic killed to secure the cabin, they'd been celebrating a birthday. There was a sheet cake with writing on it, cut into pieces, two of them sectioned off onto plates. I could imagine the two of them, laughing and smearing icing on each other's lips, splitting a whole cake just between two people. Little did they know that they'd soon be dead.

In a pleading voice, the man asked me, "Do I have to?"

I blinked at him, confused. "Have to what?"

"Eat it." He stared down at the piece of cake, eyes wide, hand trembling as he picked up a fork. "Please. I don't want to." Whimpering, he crossed his legs and cried, "It hurts so much."

It took me a moment to figure out what he meant. "What I said to you earlier—to die eating your own dick. You're going to do it?"

He blinked, tears streaming down his face. Each teardrop glimmered with blue magic. "I have to. There's no other option. And I already cut it off."

He hadn't; there wasn't even a knife anywhere in his hand. But for some reason he seemed convinced that he was eating his own dick.

Fascinated, I took the seat opposite him at the kitchen table and watched. I'm still watching now, the blue magic simmering around me, buzzing and uniquely alive. It's like nothing I've ever seen before, a kind of magic wholly new to me—and I've lived nineteen years as a witch.

I wonder if this is what I am from now on—a creature made of fire and fury, who turns men's minds to madness with a single touch.

It feels like a curse.

But maybe it isn't.

As he swallows the last bite of cake, big fat tears rolling down his face and snot coming out of his nose, I find myself wondering what else I can make this man do.

Suddenly I have goals. Three of them, to be exact.

1) Explore these new powers of mine.

2) Find the Heretic.

3) Destroy him completely.

Just as I'm opening my mouth to ask the dick-eating man for a few details on where his boss might be, his eyes roll back in his head and he slouches over in the chair, still as a mannequin. Grabbing a fork—as if that'll do me any good—I cautiously approach him and poke him a few times to make sure it's not a trick.

It isn't. He's really dead.

Staring down at my fingers, I notice that there's no longer a blue tinge to my skin. The flames have subsided completely, too. My incomprehensible rage has gone with them—whatever is left behind is a low, constant anger, exactly the kind of emotion I'd expect to feel after finding out my mother is dead. It's as if the madness left me, infected him, and stole his life.

I wait to feel regret for killing him. He's my third kill, if the man by the pyre also died from being infected with the madness.

But I find, after a few moments, that I don't really give a shit that he's dead.

After what the Heretic and his followers did to me and my family, death is the least that they deserve. A slow, torturous death will be fitting.

That's exactly what I plan on giving to them.

* * *

I head back into the woods with a rifle in my hand, wearing a fresh set of clothes. I found the outfit, the gun, and a few other survival supplies in the cabin. Since the dead couple won't be needing any of it anymore, I might as well make use of it all hunting the man who murdered my mother and little sister.

Tracking isn't one of my best skills, but it doesn't need to be. I'm a naturalist. Wild animals tame themselves at my hand and lend me their skills. I've got the eyes of all the birds in the trees on my side, their gentle trills letting me know which direction the Heretic and his followers went.

I don't know what I'll do when I catch up to them and see Lizzy's body.

---