The Need For Resolve

“Wherewithall is where you go when you can’t afford those tickets to Transylvania.”

SEVERAL INJURED, HYSTERIA OUTBREAK

Farah stared blankly at her flatscreen.

“Kelly, tell us about what we’re hearing,” said the snarky TV anchor.

“Thanks John,” the pen-pressed co-anchor replied, “In the port city of Wherewithall, dozens of violent crimes have taken place in what people are claiming as coordinated attacks… by vampires.”

“Vampires?!” John jested.

Kelly rolled her eyes, “Yes, John, vampires.”

“Do they sparkle?”

“Local authorities state that several unidentified suspects had reportedly ‘transformed’ with bat-like features and attacked crowds at over 20 local night-life establishments and entertainment venues…”

A photo of Howard’s exterior, bloodied and burning, was featured a carousel of images.

Farah shut her eyes tight and cocooned herself into the sherpa blanket.

“Dozens of missing persons reports have been filed, and many more are expected to follow in the wake of last night’s disaster.”

“The question remains, what does Dracula want this time?” John said.

The TV clicked off on the image of the fed-up anchor beside him.

“You! Witch!”

Farah flinched as if the scream was directly in her ear.

“What have you done?!” A voice roared.

—

The middle aged man bared his fist down on the hood of his dilapidated car.

Farah jumped.

A dent formed and he grimaced

“Why can’t you leave this crap alone? Magic, it doesn’t exist,“ Farah’s father hissed. “And it hasn’t. Ever.” Stress creased his face.

“But it has,” a younger Farah, barely sixteen, protested, “For a long time! There’s research that shows-“

“I said leave it!” Her father barked.

Farah hugged herself.

It was growing cold as winter came on. Dead leaves stuck to the sides of their lonely suburban home.

“I’m busting my ass-“ He moved his fist to his teeth, gnawing at his anger, “Just- Be normal. Please.”

“Magic is normal… It was normal-“

“Dammit, Farah!” Her father threw up his hands and stormed down their gravel driveway, then doubled back, “Do you want to end up like your mother? Huh? Do you like white walls and bed pans? Do you want to end up a lunatic?!”

Farah’s shoulders shrunk and she looked away, “No…”

“You’re going to put yourself in danger with that— stuff. Okay? You’re putting us in danger. I’m working very hard to give us a good life. You love me, right?”

Farah looked back to her father, confused. “Of course, yeah. I love you.”

Farah’s father inhaled, “Then don’t go down this path, okay? Be your best, for me? You’re a good girl, you’re so capable… Please,” his voice wavered, “Stop this nonsense.”

Farah frowned. “Yeah. Okay.”

—

Farah slowly lifted her arm. Her veins were gently pulsing lilac in tandem with her heartbeat.

Demi’s smile flashed in her mind.

Demi being dragged and eaten followed.

Farah’s brows scrunched and her throat tightened.

“What have you done?” Roared louder in her head.

Snickering and the echo of Farah’s head hitting a locker.

The body of a teenage boy sprayed blood, laid under a collapsed bookshelf.

“You, witch!” Harris yelled, scaling the cases of beer on all fours with his claws.

The screams of Howard’s Tavern.

The snapping of electricity along a suburban street. Farah doubled over in pain from crying.

Her father’s wrath painted across her cheek.

Demi’s disenchanted sigh and head turned away at the cafe.

All the memories flashed faster and faster before Farah could lock her emotions away. Her knees folded into her chest and she wrapped her arms around her legs, letting herself sink further into the cradle of her well-loved armchair.

She whispered through a quivering lip, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry…”

The dead television stared. Farah started to sob again.

The burden of her lungs soon brought her back to reality. She craned her head up and stared back at the blackened mirror.

Vampires. What could anyone do against that?

“Magic,” Demi’s voice deadpanned.

It felt like a century to inhale again; the air infiltrated inside her and stoked a smoldering ember.

Magic.

Farah crawled off the chair and shed the blanket, her bloodshot eyes pointed at her apartment door.

“I can do magic,” Farah whispered.

—

In the dawn of downtown Wherewithall, a beautiful concrete cathedral stood above the oppressive southern oaks and Spanish moss. Coastal gales swayed the scene back-and-forth.

Across the street, an ivy-covered brick-and-mortar shuttered.

Opalescent eyes snapped open.

“The Chaos Witch is coming,” a woman's voice wished into the wind.