Play with dark magick
Call of the angels, open eyes. How many of them were feasting already?
Once upon a time, on an ordinary date, a particular omen 1 passed by my overly superstitious household.
I didn’t reach for the crucifix. The eidolon of an all-powerful man who can protect me, something I refuse to welcome without baring my teeth. I'll believe it when I see it, said St. Thomas the Apostle—though I much prefer it in Spanish. “Ver para creer, dijo Santo Tomás” feels humbler that way. Closer to home.
The words are heavy on the back of my throat, and I seldom dare say them out loud; perpetually afraid. Not of eternal damnation—I could not care less for that—afraid that it all will go sideways while I am still alive because God, merciful as He is, does not spare the rod. (I am yet another success story of the Catholic Inquisition.)
I reached for my mum, ran to her, more like it. Reliable, actually there. It was she who came running to my aid and murdered the creature while it was trying to get away. Brujería. Evil sent by flesh but allowed by divinity. I was too shaken up to sleep properly afterwards, but I brushed off her words with a scoff. Who would take their time to do that to me? “I take what I want, and I want it to mean good, so it will.” It’s not manifesting, not quite. Bending of the will, more like it— in reality, not even a tiny bit comforting.
I claim it does not matter, but I still crawl like a dog searching for something to worship. Someone to not only guide my existence, back-up my right to exist, but to answer for it in the grand scheme of our cosmos— someone’s child. Then I remember I am already someone’s child. I worship her instead. My hand over my eyes when I witness the contradictions and the ‘imperfections.’ Humanity is laden with the dirtiest of adjectives.
In any case, it is just a temporary solution to the seemingly universal ache inside of us. To find someone—something— to cling onto. We are explicitly taught Salvation is only real when it comes from the outside; we cannot save ourselves, the mere notion is ridiculous. Us? Powerful enough to deliver weighty judgement? Ha!
I know what I have to do, but I feel chicken-ish as soon as The Sun says His goodbyes. My things are thrown inside the tote bag, only my hand reaches in the sliver of the open door to click the light switch, I turn the key twice afterwards, and push with my weight to check. Swallow, try to play a song in my head, feel the steady press against my bladder.
My girl is dead, her barks no longer there to bring sanctuary— I know whatever is there will not be afraid of me like it used to be of her. I cannot pretend they are not there. We inhabit the same house, but it truly only belongs to one of us. 2 That's why I don’t turn back when I make my way inside. The whistling winds a mocking farewell, they know I know, and one day I’ll turn to face them, and I’ll find everything I ever dreamt of or a quick ticket to damnation.
Here's the recipe if you're still reading this. Maybe you’ll dare to do what I’ve been postponing.
Press your dominant hand against a window, preferably one that faces into a garden. They settle there at night.
Whisper into the dark and for it while looking out. I see you; give me what I want—my one desire—and you shall have a place on my altar, be the object of my devotion, of my awe. I gaze into you; now gaze back.
Feel it. The story says you’ll find it harder to write and go about life the way you used to. You gave the claim over your life away, dominance. That’s how you know it worked.
Centipedes (imposingly beautiful as they are) aren’t exactly a good omen, but I guess it really depends on who you ask. They can weaken an individual; that’s why you throw them into an amphora with people’s pictures, bury it away. See them chip and break, bye-bye. But don’t try it unless you know what you’re messing with.
I find reality and old traditions are the main source of my stories, of the best ones, the ones dearest to my heart. Take everything with a grain of salt, but don’t think I make it all up. See you next one. 3
