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One half of Becka’s dorm room is fastidiously clean, not a piece of clothing or paper out of place, the blankets on the bed devoid of wrinkles, the tiny bookshelf on the wall organized alphabetically.
But the other half…
I’m honestly surprised Becka’s roommate hasn’t killed her yet.
It looks as ifHocus Pocushas thrown up on every available surface.
Witch protection bells dangle overtop of the window, the bronze siding chipped and flaking. According to Becka, they’re supposed to ring whenever an evil entity crosses beneath them.
Colorful candles sit on the top of Becka’s vanity, intermingled with her scattered makeup. Orange, red, yellow, blue, and green. They’re currently unlit, but a healthy collection of wax has hardened down the sides.
Gemstones are placed everywhere—on the desk, the bedside table, underneath her pillow, on her own bookshelf, beneath her bed. I see moonstone, copper, amazonite, and labradorite. They’re all supposed to do something different, but I’veforgotten what. I think one is supposed to help with healing…maybe?
I’m not so keen on the magical side of our business. But the killing monsters side…I get an A+ for that.
Ignoring Becka’s quip, I ask, “So…why did you call me if you didn’t want to train?”
I don’t know why I even bother to ask; I know exactly why she called me. The same reason she always calls me on a Friday night.
She just got sneaky about how she went about doing it this time.
“Well,” she begins carefully, not meeting my eyes. “There’s a party—”
“Becks!” I reach for the nearest object—one of her purple crystals—and toss it at her head.
She ducks before it can make contact and casts me a withering glare, though the effect is slightly dampened by the lipstick that has accidentally smeared her cheek. It’s a shock of dark red against her naturally pale skin.
“You’re an evil bitch, you know that?” She reaches for a makeup remover wipe and begins to rub at her face. “You’re lucky I love your sadistic ass.”
“Youtoleratemy sadistic ass,” I counter. “There’s a difference.”
“Girl, would I have come with you to that abandoned camp to kill a bunch of wendigos if I didn’t love you?” She throws the makeup wipe over her shoulder, very purposefully aiming for my head.
Unfortunately for her, it flutters to the ground only a few inches away from her, joining the clutter of discarded clothes already there.
“You got wendigo guts on my favorite jacket. Do you know how hard it is to clean bright-red wendigo goo off of leather? Really fucking hard.”
“I told you to just throw the thing away,” I singsong.
The glare she throws me could curdle milk.
“That jacket wasGucci, and you’re a heathen,” she snipes.
“I’m a lot of things, but I can’t say I’ve ever been called a heathen before.” I move towards the open window, where the October breeze blows my red hair back.
Ribbons of ambient moonlight tease the ground at my feet in white stripes, somehow adding to the ominous feel of Becka’s witchy room.
What did she once say about the full moon?
Something about the possibilities being infinite? Of heightened potential and danger?
I should probably remember this stuff.
“You need to come to this party with me.” Becka, apparently, refuses to drop this topic of conversation. “You haven’t gotten laid in… How long has it been? Since the ‘ex-boyfriend?’” She emphasizes the last word with exaggerated finger movements.
“Why are you putting shit in weird-ass air quotes?” I demand. “Travisismy ex. Our breakup is in no way ambiguous.”
Becka scoffs derisively and refocuses on her reflection in the mirror. “That explains why he texts you one hundred times a day begging you to take him back. Oh! And the time he drunk dialed you and said,”—she lowers her voice in a piss-poor impersonation of my ex—“‘I still love you. I need you, baby. Please. Please. Please. I’ll kiss your feet.’”
