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Agatha woke to woman standing over her. She was older, greying hair pulled back into a bun, large glasses hanging on a chain, and red lips pulled into a frown.
She wore a blue jacket with the logo of the Salem bus depot on it. Pinned to the front was a name tag that said Lucy.
"You're going to have to leave."
Agatha blinked slowly from where she sat curled up on the bench and looked past the woman to outside. It was snowing. Fat flakes reflected off the light of the street lamps, blanketing the ground in an oppressive layer of white.
"Miss," she snapped her fingers drawing Agatha's attention. "You can't stay here.
"I—," Agatha unfurled herself from the corner of the bench clutching her backpack. "My mother is coming to pick me up," she mumbled.
Lucy raised an eyebrow and Agatha looked down face turning red. The silent judgement from the woman lay heavy in the room.
"She's coming," Agatha said, some unknown need driving her to defend Evanora from this stranger. "She is coming. She said she would. She's just running late." The same words she'd tell her teachers and counselors and sitters. And Lucy gave her the same pitying look.
"She is. It's just the weather." She motioned outside where the snow was picking up speed. Never mind that it hadn't been snowing when she first arrived.
Lucy stared at her and Agatha fidgeted under her gaze. "The station closes at 8. If she's not here by then I'll call you a ride." Agatha opened her mouth to protest but the woman cut her off. "Consider it an early Christmas gift."
The ride was free. He pulled up in front of the station in a little beat up car with no name or logos on it as soon as the clock hit 8, so Lucy must have reached out earlier. Agatha supposes she should've been upset about the woman's lack of faith in her words, but as she watched Lucy embrace the man she couldn't find it in herself to be upset. Mostly she just felt tired.
The drive was made in silence. Agatha in her faded jeans and worn boots sat in the back of the car while the man navigated through the streets of Salem. It's been years since she's stepped foot in the town, but it hasn't changed a bit.
She'd left Salem running, tail between her legs, one eye looking over her shoulder, and no plan to ever come back.
But then the letter came.
Agatha's hand drifted to her pocket. She still had it. The letter. It showed up unmarked, slid under her door. A bus ticket and a formal request to come back to Salem for the holidays, signed by one Evanora Harkness.
Agatha almost threw it away. No address, no postage. A stupid prank by idiots who wanted her to think Evanora had found her. But it nagged at her. The what if.
She kept the letter.
The driver didn't accept any money when he dropped her off, and peeled away as soon as Agatha closed the door, tires sliding in the snow. Agatha stood on the side of the road, her boots sinking into the snow.
It was quiet. The kind of quiet that only comes after a heavy snowfall, when all sound is muffled. Before her stood her house. Her childhood home. Her prison.
It looked exactly the same as it did when she last left it, only, now that she was looking closer, there were some signs of age. Paint on the side of the house were faded and peeling, overgrown grass and weeds peeked through the layer of snow. Agatha made her way up the path towards the house. The porch was warped, nails and boards sticking up, and when Agatha tried the door it swung open with a creak.
The house was quiet, dark, and cold. Agatha kicked the snow off her boots on to the threadbare rug that had seen better days and shrugged off her bag and her coat to toss on the chair that was always by the entrance.
"Mother?" she called, her breath puffed out in front of her. She tried the lights when she came in, and they didn't turn on, so searching for the thermostat would be a waste of time. It didn't bother her. More often than not she would spend time doing homework by candlelight because Mother decided that witchcraft and crystals were more important than bills.
Agatha wandered through the house. If her mother was in she'd find her quickly. It wasn't that large and there weren't many places to hide. She passed by photos on the walls, her and her mother, posing, smiling. A picture perfect family, if only because you couldn't see the beatings that occurred before hand.
A healthy layer of dust covered everything. Mother didn't clean. Both the fridge and pantry were empty save for the open bottle of wine that sat next to the stove. Her stomach growled. Mother didn't cook either.
Agatha grabbed the bottle of wine swirling it around. It was the only thing in the house that wasn't covered in dust and it was half empty. Figures. Agatha took a swig forgoing a glass. Mother always did love her wine.
"Mother," she called swaying. She headed to the stairs, bottle tucked under her arms. "You fucking forgot to pick me up."
The stairs creaked under her weight as she climbed up them. She could be quieter. She knew how to move through the house without making a sound, how to hide her presence to avoid attention. Her mother didn't deserve that consideration. She was older now. Stronger.
Agatha moved through the hallway like a ghost. Her bedroom door was closed. She could feel a cool breeze flow through the gap in the bottom of the door. It swirled around her, past her ankles, down the hall. A draft maybe, from the window. Was it left open or… Memories threatened to overwhelm her.
She took a swig from the bottle, red staining her lips, and pushed away, ambling instead to the bathroom. That door was open, light trickled in sluggishly from the small window placed high up on the wall. Glass glittered on the floor. Remnants of her last outburst. A broken mirror and two people too stubborn to clean it up.
Inside, she knew, taped up underneath the sink, would be a joint and a lighter. One of many hidden around the house. She grabbed it, lit it up, took a hit, and coughed. Overpriced ditch weed gotten from a kid at school. It was shitty, but got the job done. Glass crunched under her socked feet, the sharp prick breaking through the familiar haze clouding her mind.
"Mother," she called out. Her mother's room was at the end of the hall way. It seemed to stretch impossibly long in front of her. She breathed out, smoke from the joint slowly filling the corridor with a white haze. "Where are you?"
She moved slowly, leaning against the wall. When she got to the door it was locked, but that didn't surprise her. The door was always locked. She pulled on the knob anyways. "Open the fucking door." The knob rattled and fell, clattering to the ground. She banged on the door. "I know you're in there." Silence greeted her.
Agatha screamed kicking the door. "Answer me," she shouted. Her voice cracked, throat heavy. "You wanted me to come here." She dropped to her knees. "You fucking coward."
When Agatha woke up it was to the feeling of the being watched. It was dark. Moonlight filtered in through the gaps of the curtain giving the room a soft other worldly glow. Agatha blinked blearily, watching the shadows dance around the room.
She wasn't in the hallway.
Her bedroom was plain. There were no posters, no fancy furniture or colored walls. There was no individuality allowed in her mother's house. Despite that she recognized it immediately.
The bed she was laying on was uncomfortable. It was hard and lumpy, and smelled slightly of mildew. A second hand bed bought with half a years worth of babysitting money. The one thing in the house that was her own. The only thing that made the nights just a little bit more bearable.
Agatha shifted, and froze. She wasn't wearing her usual clothes. Not the plaid shirt and faded jeans that were her day to day wear, nor the ratty tee and boxer shorts that oft made up her sleep wear. Instead she wore a thin night gown. It was a requirement to wear it to bed. Good women covered themselves up properly lest they be punished. Agatha knew without even looking that the night gown she wore was Mother's favorite.
She could hear it, the soft breaths of Mother as she laid behind her. She stayed quiet. Didn't move, didn't acknowledge the presence behind her. Her mother, because who else could it be, was quiet as well. And for a brief moment Agatha let herself believe that this was it. That nothing else would happen. That maybe Mother just missed her and wanted to be close. And wanted nothing else.
It was when she started drifting off for real that her mother moved. She scooted closer, pressing her front against Agatha's back. Agatha could feel it, the thinness of her night gown doing nothing to protect her from her mothers touch.
Mother was cold, she was always cold while Agatha was always hot, and Agatha shivered as her mother's hand trailed its way up the length of her body. Down her arm, across her stomach, in between the valley of her breasts before finally settling to cup her cheek, a trail of goosebumps left in its wake.
Agatha swallowed, bile rising up in her throat. "Mother…"
The hand on her cheek moved, brushing against her lips. "That's not what you call me," her mother whispered. A finger pressed against her and Agatha's mouth fell open accepting the digit. "What's my name?"
She slid another finger in, and Agatha closed her lips around it, long forgotten instincts leading her to suck on them. Her mother moaned. She shifted then, pushing Agatha to lay on her back, rising to hover above her.
Agatha closed her eyes.
"Come on," the voice above her said. Hair tickled her chin, and breath ghosted over her neck. A warm wetness engulfed her breast, and Agatha cried out, back arching. "Say my name."
Agatha shook her head. She writhed under the onslaught, her body waking up as her mother sucked and bit at her through her gown. A familiar heat rushed through her. She shook her head, pushing Mother's fingers out her mouth. "Stop."
"Oh sweetie." Lips touched hers, Mother moving up to kiss her. Agatha scrunched her nose. Mother tasted wrong.
Mother kissed her, slowly, passionately. She cupped the back of Agatha's head, fingers tangling in her hair. Her other hand snaked downwards, pushing up the bottom of her night gown.
"Oh would you look at that," Mother crooned.
Agatha felt her face get hot. She knew what her mother would find. Her body clenched traitorously as Mother's fingers skittered past her, slick dripping out to coat her thighs. Proof. Proof of her debauchery, of her wickedness. Because no good person would be dripping at the prospect of their mother's incestuous touch.
"Say my name." Mother's voice sung out in a discordant melody. Her fingers probed gently at Agatha's entrance, pulling away before Agatha could rock her body onto them. Agatha could see, in her minds eye, her mother's face. The smug look of satisfaction, the twisted grin, the joy she got from making her daughter break.
"I don't…." she broke off, a whine falling from her lips as Mother reached up and pinched a nipple. "Mother please."
"That's not my name."
"Mommy." It was soft. Barely a whisper, but it was the beginning of her undoing.
"That's a good girl." Her mother moved quickly, shoving in two fingers. The burn felt familiar, and Agatha groaned as her body struggled to adjust. Her mother didn't wait. It always hurt, the first time, and Mother had no patience to ease her into it. The pain was her punishment.
Her mother set a brutal pace. Her fists clutched at the sheets, body rocking in time with her mother's thrusts. "Oh don't cry." A tongue swept up the side of her face, chasing the path of the tears. "Mommy's here." Another finger was added. Agatha clenched around it.
The schlurp of Mother's fingers leaving her and slamming back in sounded loudly in the room. Agatha felt herself throb, a dull ache of a neglected organ. She moved her hands down, tried to touch herself. Mother growled grabbing her hand. It was not allowed. "Mommy," she whined. Her hips twisted as her mother pinned her hands over her head. "Mommy Please."
"You know the rules Agatha." Mother leaned forward biting the side of Agatha's neck. She punched a sharp cry out of Agatha twisting her fingers. "You don't touch. If you want something you need to use your words."
She wants… she wants… Drool dripped from the corner of her mouth. It was hard to think, to move. Her head lolled to the side, high pitched gasps echoing in the room. "Mommy," she mumbled.
"Do you want more?"
No she didn't, but all that came from her mouth was a garbled groan. Mother pressed another finger in. It was too much, too many. Agatha felt herself stretch painfully around her mother's hand.
"Oh baby. You're not used to this are you? That's why you shouldn't have left." She moved faster, hips driving her fingers deeper into Agatha. "Don't worry," she said between thrusts. "Mommy's here. Look at me baby."
Agatha shook her head. "No Mommy. I can't." She didn't want to.
Sharp nails dug into her cheeks, and Agatha cried out, pressing back against the bed. "I said look at me," Mother growled.
Agatha opened her eyes.
"Good girl."
Agatha woke up to a pounding headache. And to aching thighs, aching back, and a sore throat. She groaned slowly peeling her eyes open. The bottle of wine greeted her, empty, which explained the headache, and on the floor, which explained the body ache.
She pushed herself up into a sitting position wincing as her joints cracked in protest. There was a time was a time when she could sleep on the floor and wake up feeling, not great, but not completely destroyed.
She stumbled past her old bedroom. The door was open. Sunlight filtered through the dirty window, particles floating lazily in the air. She could see, through the small opening, the stains on the floor, the mess on the bed, the heavy scent of rot.
Agatha turned away.
There was nothing for her here anymore.