Black Magic Women Tales Weaver #74

My gris gris bag rests between my fingers.  I picture the face.  I hang a smile on my face. Time ticks away pieces of life.  Visions of perfection in his life, melt like wax trickling from its candle.  It is justice.  It is vengeance. Heart ripping for heart ripping.

The price is forgotten long afterwards. I forged a chain of misery.  I dragged it, creating furrows.  The black vines reaching get out to strangle what ever they touch.  I preyed to every demon, devil, banshee, wraith.  If its dark, the welcome mat was out.

The shadows parted.  Like a flashlight splitting the night, their she was. Her angles were sleek, elongated reaching the edges I dare not think of.  But I welcomed her into my world.  My essence would bring my redemption.   The embrace of ice burnt through my soul.  The darkling that consummated the deal will return to me.

There would be holes nothing could fill again, but I would share that with her new man.  I would know what consumed the Sun.  He will know madness instead.  The Black Magic Woman told me so.


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