Micro Story #3: Cinnamon Bleach
Updated: May 6
“You know how people say ‘I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy’? Well, I’m not like that. If you are my enemy, I wish you pain. I wish you torture, ragged cries in the night. I don’t wish you death, but a life of violent suffering and illness.”
He looks at me as if for the first time. But he needs to know. I am many things, but I am not a liar to my friends.
“I want you to know who I am. Not because you deserve to know, but because if you’re going to love me, I want you to love all of me.”
The brown of his eyes darken while his lips thin. He crosses his arms and turns to look out at the grey spaceship, thick with the smell of cinnamon-scented bleach. I hold my breath, but I can still feel the vein on the side of my forehead throb.
This ship couldn’t be our home. It couldn’t even be our rest stop since we needed to leave immediately. They would find me here. There’s not another witch on board to amplify my protection spell.
“If this is going to work,” he whispers before meeting my eyes, “stop reading my mind. I need privacy. I need ---”