Am I A Witch?

When the girl was young, she wanted to be a witch. She could create spells of her own one day but had to train herself with other people’s spells. It was hard work and some people noticed her potential but everyone who is young has potential. She wanted to be a witch with her own grimoire and her own spells.

Through her training and through her tears and through her heartbreaks, she failed more times than she succeeded. However, she always came back to witchcraft. Through her darkest periods, she turned to her herbs and her familiars. She turned to what made her heart soar, even though it was drenched in sadness and sorrow.

Through her happiest, she wrote her successes in the grimoire she carried with her. She would have new ones eventually but her old ones always managed to find its way back to her… magic, she understood it as. She could never deny the magic she was naturally gifted in. She understood that she wasn’t good with projecting images. She understood that she certainly wasn’t quick enough to escape monsters. She understood… she wasn’t good at many things.

All through her life, with everything else besides casting spells, she had to work twice as hard as the other witches. They all seemed so talented compared to her. She never showed off her own spells in front of others – oh, she would tell them her ideas for potential spells. At first, they were interested and excited over the ideas and concepts. They praised her for her ideas… but the witch found it difficult to create them.

The other witches would understandably get bored and move on. They would see what other witches had already created and properly praised her.

Eventually, the woman, no longer a girl, began to question herself.

“Am I a witch?”

A witch could create her own spells and perform them with ease.

“Am I a witch?”

The question would plague her mind. It would consume any other thought. Still, the ideas for spells keep coming. She writes down her ideas in hopes, maybe, the question would echo away. But it didn’t.

The witch struggled. For now, recreations of other witches’ spells seemed to suffice. There was nothing she can do for her original spells. But no matter how good her recreations were, it never seemed enough. She always had to work twice as hard to make her spells as beautiful as a recreation could be – but other illusionists are better. To be sure, there was nothing wrong with interacting or even acknowledging witches better than her. However, no one seemed pleased with the witch’s magic.

Nothing was enough, wasn’t it?

No matter how much she trained, no one liked it enough to say, “Look at that witch. She’s so wonderful and great!” No one would utter those words. The witch is kind as she was diligent in her studies.

“Am I a witch?”

No, she wasn’t a witch. She couldn’t be a witch. The other witches knew she wasn’t one of them; they knew she would never be one of them. They were nice – sometimes they would give tips or lead her somewhere to get help. There’s only so much they could do. The witch never waned from her training. She didn’t know what she trained for but, maybe, one day, she will become the witch she so desired.

“But you are a witch! As long as you cast spells, as long as you call yourself a witch!”

It’s not that simple. People dress up as witches at least once a year for games and tricks and treats. The woman dressed as a witch, but did it mean she was?

“Am I a witch?”

Her heart is weak and her sadness made her weaker. What could she do to prove to herself that she’s a witch? It seemed that other witches don’t have much doubt in their abilities – they do it again and again. Maybe they have bad days, but it’s hard to tell. Depression could and would latch onto anything and it managed to convince this woman that she’s not a witch and that she’s better off without it.

No one wants her spells. No one needs her spells.

They would find out she’s not a real witch; it’s better to understand she’s not a witch now before someone finds out. Once they find out she’s a fraud, they’ll take away her grimoire and burn it to ashes – it’s better for the witch to understand her place in the world.

Anyone could dress up as a witch. She’s a fraud, she believes.

“Am I a witch?”

No, depression convinced her, she is not. And it’s foolish to even try.

But try as depression could, this fake witch still studies her spells day in and day out. She hopes that the question would go away and she could finally create her own spells.

The End

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