Page 3 of Unshaken

I can hear an argument between Marcus and my father begin, but I kick the basement door shut with my foot, no longer caring what venom my father decides to spit over me.

Opening my water bottle, I tip my head back and let the cool water run down my throat, letting the silence of the moment calm me down. When I finish the bottle, I walk over to the trash can and throw it in, making sure I leave nothing out of place in the open planned kitchen. My parents are all about order and structure, even an empty water bottle on the counter is grounds for a lecture. I look around the kitchen, the stainless-steel appliances, the bright white marble counter tops, black tile floors, and the massive bowl of fruit in the middle of the kitchen island. Everything is where it’s supposed to be, no tarnish in sight, if one is found, it is quickly discarded. Everything is black and white in our community of Light Guardian Witches. Our own little perfect gated community. Every house is the same, everyone went to the same schools, everyone worshiped at the same church, and everyone believes the same things. Our magic is even similar. Elemental Witches that pass through the Academy are given special weapons and “blessings” in the form of Enochian tattoos that boost our powers. Deviation is not acceptable. Every family here follows a certain pattern, the same boring ass cookie cutter lives, and I stand out like a sore thumb.

“Micah, what are you doing up here?” I’m so lost in my thoughts that I don’t hear the sound of my mother’s heels on the tiled floor. Her black pant suit is impeccable. She’s tall and graceful with not a hair out of place. My mother is perfection. She is who I will be in twenty-five years, if I’m ever given the opportunity to stand amongst the elite at Caelum Academy. We look exactly the same, same tall muscular build, and dark brown skin, except my eyes are a light amber color and hers are dark brown. She was a top Light Guardian for years, until my father’s accident during a routine hunt which led him to have to step down due to his injuries, and my mother stepped down with him as well. Now my father teaches combat training at the Academy, and as I stare at the Caelum Academy emblem pinned to my mother’s lapel, it only makes me feel more out of place as I look in the eyes of the Headmistress herself.

“Micah.” She snaps her fingers. Somehow, she’s moved and is standing right in front of me. She looks me over quickly. I don’t miss her disapproval of me standing in the kitchen in my sweaty workout gear leaning against her clean kitchen counter.

“You should still be training with your father and Marcus for at least another hour.” She checks her watch, of course, she needs to be exact about it. Verity is never wrong. With that thought, I push myself off the counter and away from her. I don’t know what comes over me but as I open my mouth, my intention is clear.

“I’m done training. I’m done with hoping to be something I am not. I am twenty-three, and there is nothing keeping me here.” I don’t question my decision; it seems that my subconscious mind is made up. “I’m leaving.”

Two

MICAH

“What?” I hear the shock in her voice, her heels pound the tiled floor as she follows behind me. I don’t stop as I make my way through the massive Colonial-style two-story, five-bedroom home. I hurry along, thinking to myself that this place is way too big for the four of us. Why my parents didn’t have more children, I have no idea. It always felt empty, even with me and Marcus running around and getting into our own brand of trouble.

“You will do no such thing, Micah!” Her voice comes out as a shriek as I take the long-carpeted hallway through to the atrium leading to the front door and the gold-plated wrought iron double staircase. I can’t hold back my eye roll. I don’t want to talk about it. I need to make it to my room and grab what I need and leave. I can’t stay here.

“I’ve made my decision, Momma. There is nothing you can say that can convince me otherwise.” I stop and turn as I reach the stairs. My mother’s face is unreadable as she looks me over in that all too familiar way that she does. She is assessing me, testing me, checking for cracks, as if I am a child having a tantrum, and she’s mentally searching for a way to appease me. She smiles slowly, having her eureka moment, and puts her hands on her hips.

“Is this about admissions? Oh, Micah, you know I don’t decide who goes to the Academy, but baby, I really think that this is your year.” She offers me a proud smile, the exact same smile she gave me last year. I remember how hopeful I had been back then. When the day came and went, I was devastated. I can’t take another year of rejection, the gossip, or the stares.

“No, this has nothing to do with it. In fact, if the Archangel Michael showed up himself, I would tell him no. I am done, Mom. Done.” My words are full of determination, and my mother steps back, as if she’s been slapped from the impact. I mean, honestly, if the Archangel Michael did show up to the door, I don’t know what I would say let alone do. I would definitely decline nicely. I’m brave, but I would like to avoid his wrath by offering up my own rejection with a kind smile.

“You don’t mean that, Micah. Stop and think, child. Your future is here, with us.” I can see her carefully placed mask starting to slip, the one that holds back her true feelings, and I can’t help but hold my breath waiting eagerly for it to happen. The slight widening of her eyes, the bending of her knees, and the way she holds her hands in front of her, clasped fingers fidgeting. Oh yeah, she’s slipping. My mother holds her cards close to her chest when it comes to how she really feels. Right now, I have a front row seat.

“What did your father say to you?” She steps a bit closer to me, placing her hand on my arm, as if she wants to stop me from escaping up the stairs. She knows how my father treats me, she knows there is favoritism between Marcus and me, yet she still asks. As if he would change his verbally abusive tune. I look down at where her hand is touching mine. I try to recall when the last time we had any kind of physical contact at all. I don’t think I’ve had a hug in years. I look at my mother, really look at her, and that’s when I see it. Desperation. Sadness. Exhaustion. I know I haven’t been the easiest child to raise, I’ve been rebellious and fought against everything my parents have tried to instill in me. Especially, my mother. Seeing her emotions written so clearly on her face makes me want to squash my plans.Maybe, I can give it one more year,I muse to myself, but those thoughts last for a second before I berate myself internally to stick to my guns. I almost feel relieved to see that my mother is not the robot Marcus and I used to joke about. To be honest, I thought she would have been on board with this plan. Out of sight, out of mind, right?

“What he always says, Mother.” She flinches at my formality, but quickly shutters her emotions again. Mask back in place, she stands straighter, as if she’s preparing herself for my next barrage of words.

“I am tired of him telling me that I am not good enough. The way I see it, I can go out into the real world and make it on my own. I am sure there are plenty of non-magical universities that I can go to. Have a regular non-magical job, be regular.” I shrug, and in doing so I slide my arm out of her hold and move up another step out of her reach. The moment regular slips out of my mouth, I feel sick to my stomach, I know that I am more. I’ve always felt it. I wish everyone else could accept it.

My mother stares at me, this is the second time in less than thirty minutes that I have stumped both of my parents into silence. She rubs her hands down her pants, smoothing out her appearance as if she has an audience.Now, that I think it, maybe she does? Do the Angels listen in on us?I would really hope not, I’ve done some interesting things with various boyfriends over the years that would be considered unguardian-like. Yikes, I cringe just thinking about it.

“You’re not regular, Micah, not by a long mile.” My mother sighs. And just like that, she has my attention. Her eyes shift left to right, as if she is searching for the right words to say. She wrings her hands in front of her.Very interesting.My mother is always so sure of herself. Now, she looks anxious, nervous even. “People fear what they don’t understand. When you don’t fit the mold, they begin to ask questions. They want to delve into why you are not like everyone else. I’ve tried to protect you from the moment your power manifested. I have tried to prepare you for a world that will chew you up and spit you out. You are special, but special can be used, manipulated.” I’m hanging on to mother’s words, relieved that she is giving me something; feelings, emotions, truth, wondering why it has taken her so long to tell me this.

I nod slowly, taking it all in. Of course, I know all of this, but to hear it from her now, you would think she is possessed. These words would have made all the difference as I grew up. A quiet reassurance that I was OK, just different. All I ever wanted was for my parents to tell me it’s OK to be me.

My mother blows out another breath. She steps away from me then turns, as if she’s about to leave. My mouth parts in shock. There is no way this is the end of this discussion. She takes a step, breathes again, and places her hands on my hips. This series of actions alone has me stepping down the steps one part concern, and one part curiosity at her erratic behavior.

“Mom, what’s wrong—”

“Micah,” she says, interrupting me and continues, "I think it’s time I told you the—”

The chime of the doorbell stops her mid-sentence. I look from her to the front door then back again. I watch my mother sigh with relief, and she visibly collects herself.

“Oh, thank the heavens.” She looks up to the sky, hands clasped together, and I am wondering if she is going to drop to her knees and start praying when the doorbell rings once again.

“I think that’s for you, Micah.” My mother smiles, gesturing for me to answer the door.

“Is anyone going to answer the door?” I hear Marcus’s yell from the kitchen, the thundering of their footsteps can be heard as he and no doubt my father make their way to the front of the house.

I rub my hands down my leggings, suddenly feeling extremely nervous. This is what you have worked hard for, Micah.All the training, all the sacrifice, it all leads to you walking towards this door and opening it,I tell myself, but my pep talk isn’t easing my anxiety at all. I take a deep breath, opening my lungs, there is absolutely nothing wrong with me, I just need to focus on inhaling and exhaling.

“Do you think they are going to stand out there forever, Micah? Answer the door.” I look over my shoulder, annoyed at my father. I’ve never wanted to hit one of my parents before, but the way he throws out his arm as if I need to be told what to do, it makes my fists clench by my sides. I ignore him, of course, as he stands next to my mother now with his hand in hers. He pulls her close and smiles, like they’re the perfect parents. I guess in their eyes they are. Marcus, sensing my tension walks up and pats me on the back with a beaming smile, and I smile back, feeling excited for the first time in a long time. My younger brother always knows what to do. He gives me a gentle push, and I’m moving. This is happening. I take the short walk to the door and open it.

I stare out at nothing. The sun is going down on our cookie cutter neighborhood that seems eerily quiet for this time of day. There is no one there. No Angel. Nothing. I feel sick instantly. With nothing in my stomach but the water I drank, my mouth waters, and the taste of bile follows. For just a moment, I got my hopes up. I step out onto the porch and almost trip over a medium sized black box with a beautiful black dahlia on the lid.

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