I Will Howl For You

‎In Ogef, the Raven is the symbol of Death. It is also the broad, red_inked tattoo that sits brazenly across my back. When I had my first vision fortelling the death of my maternal grandmother, my mother had taken me to a tattoo artist and I had sat painfully while they sketched a broad raven across my back. It was a kind of revenge , and it was also the first of many punishments. I was only thirteen years old . ‎ ‎It's been five years now and that Raven sits still, like a stamp of death on my back. I turn away from the mirror where I had been staring unamusedly at my naked body. At eighteen, I have none of the beauty of the Carters. My face has that faraway , bored look and my eyes are deep green. In Ogef, girls my age were thick thighed and round, bubbling with the vitality of youth and health. I was as thin as the models on the Causasian Quarterly, except of course there were no models in Ogef and only a few handful even read the Quarterly. ‎ ‎My body was covered in whip marks, each for a death I had fortold and that had come to pass, and each stroke hand delivered by my mother. I could count a total of twelve such marks, like unfading emblems on my skin. In Ogef, Dark Magians were a rarity and the last known one had been framed by the Sheriff and implicated in a murder case. I knew Fredora Klein's story very well even if she died thirty years ago. My mother had had her pictures taped to my wall when the visions started coming, as a reminder that I was doomed. Ogef was a thriving town basking in the over abundance of Light Workers and Fortune Tellers. The ability to accurately predict deaths and spread doom was frowned at and hushed up. ‎ ‎But my ability was not the only thing that fizzled out my mother's affection for me. The whole mass of hair on my head was flame red. It was the only thing the stranger left me. The band singer who had gotten Leticia pregnant at seventeen and sang his way out of town and fizzled down into a myth. I reminded her too much of him. ‎ ‎My bedroom door opened unceremoniously and I yanked a coverlet across my naked ,scarred body with a huge scowl on my face. I turned to face the intruder. ‎ ‎"What is it, Norma Jean" My eyes flickered irritably at my younger sister. Or half sister. ‎ ‎Born four years after me , the first child of my mother's famous marriage with Fareiz Carter, Norma Jean Carter had somehow inherited all the beauty in the gene pool. My mother's sea blue eyes. The delicately stunning facial features. The pouty lips. The impressive height. And at fourteen, the enviable curves. ‎She was wearing a tank top and a short and was chewing bubblegum. Loudly. I resisted the urge to claw at her throat. ‎ ‎"Mom says not to keep her waiting" She said with a smirk, wandering further into the room. I winced. I have always hated my siblings prowling in my room, except of course Charlie who's a three year old cute little toddling darling. There is nothing impressive about this room except the fact that it is mine. The curtains are death black and most times the rooms stay devoid of light. I like it that way. And the only picture on the wall is a portrait of a scarecrow. Nice, really. ‎ ‎"Don't you have something meaningful to do after delivering your message?" I ask loudly. Norma Jean stops in her tracks and glares at me. Yes, I know a glare when I see one. Her eyes darted once to my closet and back at me. One of the many perks of having sisters is that your clothes get missing sometimes and you very well know who the thieves are. ‎ ‎"Yes. I have like a dozen messages to reply on Insta." She replied testilly and added "Life is really busy for those of us who have a life". ‎ ‎I swallow the retort bubbling in my throat and watched her departing back parade itself out of my room. While I fished out clothes, I brooded sullenly on my sister's words. Typical. It is not like I don't have messages to reply on Insta. It is just that I know very well who the messages are from . Barbie Mullen. Best friend of five years. I think the correct tag there is "Only friend "... of five years. I think her latest text would be about the book we are both reading. Gryl Timber's Wanderlust. ‎ ‎Well that is all Barbie and I always talk about. Books. Books. Books. Not boys. Not dresses. Not parties. Not about our frigging frightful virginity which we had sworn to loose on our nineteenth birthday. Well nineteen seems reasonable compared to our mates at Greta High who had lost theirs at sixteen. Or most notorious of them, Sophie Simms who had gotten deflowered at fifteen and bragged about it for a whole term. I roll my eyes. ‎ ‎___________________________________________ ‎ ‎In the broad, elegantly furnished sitting room, eleven year old Francine is almost clawing Gillian's throat in a playful fistfight that does not look playful at all. I do not separate them. The last time I inserted myself with elderly dignity into their fights, Gillian's hard blow aimed at Francine had landed squarely on my jaw. I could hear the music blasting heavily from Norma Jean's room which was the closest to the sitting room. These are the dozen and one reasons while I confine myself to the solitary, welcome silence of my room. ‎ ‎"Where's mom?" I barked at them. Their eyes dart at me but Francine's hands do not leave Gillian's throat. ‎ ‎"In the OutHouse" It is Francine who replies, her voice tense and testy but in the split second it takes for her to answer me, Gillian had freed himself and was now the one who had her pinned to the ground. I read the victorious smirk on his face and the incredulity on Francine's face and I knew instantly that one of them would cry shortly. ‎ ‎I shrugged unamusedly and started to walk to the door. My mother being in the OutHouse meant she had a guest. The OutHouse was a small, cozy office she held her seances, did her divinations, read fortunes and received visitors. ‎ ‎"With the Mayor" Gillian adds breathlessly. I hear a heavy thud and a tumble. I do not look back but the piercing sound of a shrill cry escort me out of the door. I do not need a backward glance to know that Francine Carter is sulking loudly in a corner and Gillian Carter is dancing victoriously, the television remote finally in his charge . Tut. Children . I shake my head irritably. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎