When in an enchantment and you realize so early on, if not too late, pour a full cap or a bottle of salt blessed by an Afrodite priest into your open mouth. Dip your head in blessed water for a minute. Nothing in mind but a firm resolution to put the witch to shame; if they know shame of any sort. Raising your head from the water, like an incantation, you chant: ''No divination, no enchantment against Jacob shall come to pass." Dip your bloody head one more time in water and the enchantment resolve will weaken and slowly disappear. It is not a cinch to realize such.
But if you realize, if you happen upon an enchantment, a divination upon your head and your canines formally white or yellow are blackening in an intense charcoal shading, your eyes are bloodshot red. Then it's properly too late. Advice: find a loaded gun to blow open your fucking skull or a sharp point of any object and smash your head against it over and over again until you can't fucking move. Whichever nice suicide plan you want to take a run at, do it. If you don't, then you probably don't love yourself.
When the enchantment has taken root inside your subconsciousness, you will become a string puppet,depending on the witches sense of humor. Maybe an errand boy, a sex slave, a footstool, even an elite assassin. Whatever! You live in the shell you once called your body. Locked out from your actions like a prisoner whose cell doors are broken but escape is like getting any sort of warmth in the middle of the Atlantic. The cell have become so comfortable that you can't imagine another world.
You will have a brain, memories which haven't been compromised but free will is not possible. No inclination to act upon it. Like a dream, so vivid, you experience your every doings, the aftermaths of your actions, but as you can't change the course of events as it plays out in dreamland, so is an enchantment. Like one grasping and groping through walls for a way out at the moment the candle suddenly extinguishes, so is a witch's curse.
Now my fellow people, my mindless children, don't mind my ranting and lack of decorum in my writing, they are being written by my hand who for all I known has gone batshit crazy. It belives these words and takes it upon itself to reveal the truth to our ignorant souls. Like my hand, my heart also believes this words, and takes it upon itself to aid the hand by vigorously pumping out blood which will probably lead to a fatal heart attack. I've also being converted, but for all I know, it's all a myth. Stay saf....
Travis wipes the fog off the mirror. Party at Chasers. And the life of the party must be there. His eyes are bloodshot red. That's odd. Weed supply ran out a week ago. A voice whispered and his face turn ashen. His world swimming through those eyes.
Travis has a predicament. He's been enchanted and its ever late as never.
****
Bride at the altar, sweating, blinking back the tears threatening to create a small ocean at her feet, so as not to ruin her makeup, having waited for the groom to show up, closed to an hour has gone.
Guests seethes with anger and some glances over the bride with looks of pity and rage but still smiles nonetheless.
The groom having a sense of the alarm he's caused by his prolonged absence, barges in with rumpled suit and face clothed in sweat, restless eyes begging without words, pleading for some kind of reprieve. 'Forgive me', those words are scattered all over his face.
The guests sneers though, they are having none of the pleading facade, no excuse. They bare their teeth at him, curse and abuse, and rises, leaving one after the other.
The act of forgiveness is not a choice for the bride to make anymore, because they will never forgive. The annoyance, the insolence of wasting their time. And show up all raggedly. His explanation mumbled by the fast movement of his lips is a waste of breath to them, their mind made up.
So they leave and carry the bride just to affront the groom. It is their rights. He stands, the groom stands, like a child robbed of its candy, in shame and in scathing tears because he was late to his wedding. Too late on the one thing that matter the most.
**********
Travis at the moment feels like this–a groom late to his own wedding, who couldn't forecast it all falling apart. He's been going through this life in a bullet train, with the speed of light. All trains have a stop, he just didn't considered that his own stop was just a mile ahead.
His pearly white cannines blackens. His eyes bloodshot red, as if he just smoked a pound of weed; he swears on his mother grave that he never does that. Travis indulges, though he will never admit that to his patrol officer, for a lot of reasons.
His mind suddenly not connecting efficiently to the rest of his body. The curse slowly taking charge.
His hand unconsciously reaches in search of an object, anything, but he wills it to stop, he can't kill himself, he just can't. Death is a cruel option. At twenty-six years, the very peak of living.
THIS IS IT, DON'T SAY NO.
They got him, this should be the end. But. Too young to be blowing his wavy, thick black head open in his room. Other suicidal methods, all gruesome, were moderately reflected upon. Moderate as it may be, did not appeal to his fragile state of mind. His hunk of a body found the next day, or however long it took, all grimly, maybe bloated, maybe dangling from a height; neck red and swollen because of the rough pressing of the rope. Maybe missing some fleshly chuck of meat on the forehead because it has been spewed open by the hot tip of a bullet.
These vivid images didn't appeal to his languid frame of mind.
Travis back is against the grey wall of his meagerly furnished apartment, he slowly slide to the floor, his legs propped up. He felt warm sweat trickling down his face and he realized he was wet with sweat. His hand rose to wipe through his forehead, slumping again limp and defeated. He knew his life has come to this point; presumably the end. His chest rose at this.
His eyes began clouding. He didn't want this. But it was clearly not about want he wants, because all he wanted was just to live. It was never about him! And existing is what he had been doing for so long. To exist didn't require a plan or dreams. He didn't dream big in fear his demons would trampled upon them in mindless rampage. It has just been enjoying life and existing comfortably. Now though, at this moment...
To live life to the fullest. To enjoy the little things– the beach, the thundering of oceans waves against the coastline. The little things. To travel.
To see life in a different light. Not through the obscure lens he had been impaired with. Not over the Everest mountain of sleek fear he has been on. How long? Since he came around. But was that his fault? No! Maybe. He never grew past the trauma. Never forgot. And it had dawned on him. The end to his all self loathing cranky self.
The practiced smile for everyone. Mouth shaping up in different angles based on the setting. Even for the freckled face red-haired girl occupying the fruit stand four block down his place. She greets him with the most illuminating smile. Her whole face colouring red, her waring teeth tearing through her face. It could give his darkness a retreat. Probably. Travis practiced smile sees him through as he drives past her. Now those little things could have been the change he needed.
Travis lungs heaving, trying to expel the tightness that was presently threatening it's supply of oxygen. His eyes focusing squarely on a part of the grey walls, hands gripping his legs, willing himself to hold back the tears. To be stronger.
A moment seem to pass, before a deep guttural scream tore through his throat and the tears came falling. It has been long. His mouth wobbled terribly as he began mumbling incoherent words. He let it all out. Clutching his face with both hands, he bawled like a child.