I don’t think I could ever understand the way my mother treats herself.

But then again, I don’t understand her at all in most of what she does.

I stared at her through the high window of my bedroom, the only available room in the whole second story of our apartment house. The window was big and wide, and it dwarfed me in comparison to its size, even when I’m considered tall for a girl. I had to sit on the windowsill to be able to look down at her, and it wasn’t hard to spot her talking to a well-kept, tall man that was twice her age. He appeared ageless, actually, with smooth black hair that flew on his head by the wind effortlessly, eyes as dark as black that could swallow you whole just as much as a well could, and there were dimples on each side of his cheeks. He looked thirty in age, but I knew his real age, I could know everything about him if I wanted, but I never wanted to know about my mom’s play toys, for then I’d be inclined to help them out off of her claws.

I don’t owe anyone a help.

With a swift trace of my finger over the condensed window, right over the man’s head; I mumbled a small spell that consisted with one syllable word, and two ghostly, golden numbers appeared over the man’s head. 48.

I knew he was older than how he looked.

In looks, he wasn’t the best looking guy out there, but it wasn’t like my mother cared for that as much as she cared for the money he earned monthly. She didn’t have a stable work, and she wasn’t aiming for one, really. She lured unsuspecting men-preys to her trap and drained them dry of their useful resources, payed the rent; fed us, and payed for my school, before going for another prey. When the quiet country bachelors start to suspect her, she packs our things and leaves for a new lair to practice her predatory ways.

I don’t think I could ever understand the way my mother treats herself.

She is a smart woman, cunning and manipulative. She could have used these attributes of hers to a good cause, and earned money decently; but she never even tried. I tried asking her when she goes through one of her better moods on why she is treating herself like that, and she gave me an unsatisfactory answer. She said: if life acted like a to you, then you should be even bigger of a and slap her back.

I don’t understand the logic behind that statement of hers. Life was never cruel to mother, she had jobs waiting for her to take, easy rents she could have payed with hard work and real effort. She had a sort of sharp beauty that could bring a kingdom down to its knees, and she bore a fake innocence that could never earn her evil. I didn’t.. I couldn’t understand her.

I could spot my mom right outside, at the front yard of our apartment building lifting her head up, looking straight at me where I was watching her through the window. I flinched a little but held my ground. I didn’t want her to know that I got startled with her little to no effort with locating me, with just a tick of her head. I tilted my head sideways, wondering why she was searching for me and for what cause. Usually when she is busy persuading the wallets out of her play toys, she wouldn’t even acknowledge she had a daughter, let alone look in my direction. My heart rocketed up to my throat, and then pummeled all the way down to my stomach.

Her eyes flashed with a sudden influx of pain, disorder, and anxiety, and I realized that the man was watching her while she expressed all of those genuine feelings when she looked at me. I knew instantly then, that he wasn’t just anyone to rob his money away. He meant something to her, he held an importance that shouldn’t have held in her heart. The thought made me irritated, for a second, before hurt was flushing down my body. I don’t remember the last time she made me think like that about myself, like I was important to her too, more than just an occupant in her home she must feed.

That flash of emotions dissolved away from her eyes, and I started to think I had imagined her showing such sincerity. She turned around to the man, nodding, and he gave her a radiant smile, showing the two deep wells on his cheeks. He was pulling her away from the house before I could blink, reaching for her hand to intertwine their fingers together.

For the first time since she started her fiasco of leaving home with different man each day, for the first time since I stopped begging her to stay; I wished she wouldn’t leave, that she’d turn back inside, reach for my own hand, and stay.

But she didn’t stay, of course, and I released the tight grip I didn’t realize I had over my breath, allowing my body the amount of oxygen it needed. I reached for the glass of window again, drawing an invisible triangle with three stars on every angle, before knotting them all with an inside line that resembled a smaller triangle. Then, I chanted a protection spell.

May morning arise with you safe and alive.

                               *

Except, she never came the next morning.

It wasn’t much of a surprise, really, she did it sometimes; rarely of course, but she still did it. She’d disappear for two days and one night, leaving me alone with groceries and allowance on the table. I didn’t mind, since I knew she’d come back, and I was given the necessities to live through two days anyway.

However, she didn’t leave anything home this time. I woke up with an empty fridge – aside a cartoon of milk —and an empty table. She didn’t even bother pick up her purse from the stool in the kitchen, not like I expected her to, since she left with that guy without going inside the house again.

I did a quick spell inside my head and clicked my fingers, searching through every crane in my house for anything useful. I knew she kept her money in her room most of the time, the same room I was not allowed to enter. My magic flew through the keyhole like a whisk of air, and immediately dispersed inside, wrapping the entire room with its soothing touches, every touch throwing a memory or two inside my head about the object. Unfortunately, there was no money, and so I retreated my magic back, standing in the middle of the living room with tightening fists.

I could feel the steam coming out of my ears. Was I really this insignificant to her that she’d leave with only a glance back? Where was she? Did she intend to come back? I had to believe that she will come back, she had to. She can’t decide to take me from my brother, my father, and then abandon me when I spent years alone, discovering my magic alone, and developing a burning hate for her as the days passed alone.

She will come back. I muttered to myself, sounding desperate and downright pathetic. But right now, there was nothing to hold onto aside faith; faith that she’d come back to her only daughter.

I only hoped.

I went to school hungry and without money; praying with every whip of magic I used in school to entertain myself that she’d be there when I return.

                                  *

It was officially two days and two nights and she didn’t bother coming back.

I sat on my bed, crawling to the headboard to lean over it; sitting down with my legs enclosed around my arms, right on my chest. My stomach continued to roar in hunger, begging for me to feed it. But where would I feed it from? My magic was quite useless when it came to these things. It could heal, track people, and reduce things into ash. But it could not create something out of nothing. Sure, I could make a weapon if I wanted, or a meal, but I have to have things to make them with, I don’t just wave a finger and it’ll be created. I wish it was easy.

Magic was also hard to harness and use. It took me days, weeks even, to memorize a single spell, or use a perfect pronunciation if the magic’s origin was not in my mother language. Some parts of it needed blood sacrifice too, or required vessels to manifest in, like a human body if you will. It took me five years to finally get the reins of it, and understand the basics, and then the harder tasks were easier to swallow.

I sat on my bed, starving and wallowing in self pity, tears begging to be released down my cheeks for a chance to be seen. It felt horrible, being so brutally ignored. My mother wasn’t mistreating me, she could never raise a hand to hurt me, but she wasn’t acknowledging me either. I don’t remember the last thing we said to each other, we rarely ever spoke to each other. She had continuous mood swings, one minute she’d be furious, sad, or irritated; and the other minute she’d be ecstatic, and she’d dance around the house. I loved when she danced, her sharp, feline mouth curled into an easygoing, worry-free smile, and her legs floated across the floor, like they were flying; with her hair lying on her back like a song serenading you to sleep. I’d sit on top of the stairs while she danced through the soft music in the living room, hiding my large frame by the railings, watching her with poorly concealed awe, wondering if she felt as beautiful as she looked.

Sometimes though, I’d sit around the kitchen, looking at my soggy, cheap breakfast cereal and wonder if she was worth it, if she was worth waiting for to get better. She and I, we are entirely two different people, and I’m sure she is aware of it already. I don’t know what happened between her and dad to make her the person that she is today, and I don’t know why I’m not allowed to talk to him again; or about him; all I know is that it was a bad divorce and my brother and I had to be legally separated. She chose me because she felt closer to her girl offspring than the guy, since I was also soft when I was a child, more endearing and less volatile.

My stomach gave another roaring growl, and I winced, throwing the pillow I was stuffing between my thighs away to stand up, eyes wide and looking incredibly crazed. I can’t allow myself to starve when I have magic flowing through my veins. I could let this entire building cave in under my feet with a single roll of my eyes, but I couldn’t offer myself a meal? It was maddening! And truthfully, I wasn’t going to sit down in this pitch black