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She doesn’t exactly remember how she got here.
She just knows that she made something worse. Like she’s doing now, desperately trying to untangle Gus from her mess.
“I can do this! I can do this…” Willow chants. “I can do this!”
She wiggles her finger, trying to summon any ounce of magic. The world around her is even darker than she originally remembers the cave being. Taking another deep breath, she stares at the column of vines where Gus hangs, trapped. Tears gather under her glasses as she begs herself.
“I can do this,” her voice breaks even further. But that can’t be, because she can’t break. She was supposed to be stronger this time. Her own magic teases her, dances around her in a circle as she stares at Gus’ cocoon. Moisture soaks into her costume as a solid stream of tears rolls down her cheek. One more time, Willow, she thinks. You’ve got one more time to get this right. Eyes shut tight she mumbles, “I can do this.” The vines tighten. She sinks to her knees.
“I can’t do this,” she admits the sour truth. I’m so sorry Gus . She hopes he hears her. Hunter, I can’t be everything you need. She hopes Hunter can’t hear the truth; hopes that even without magic he can conjure an illusion big enough for both of them. Spikes dig themselves into her back as the pressure swallows her whole. The air slowly becomes sucked out of her chest as it contorts itself to fit in the suffocating bed her failure has made for her.
“I..” And she admits everything under the darkness of her eyelids. “I can’t control my own magic…” Things always come full circle. Abominations or plants, this was what she was: a weak witch. That was an apology for Amity, who’d been right all along. “I can’t help my friends…” An apology for Augustus…an apology for Luz…for Hunter. They were the half she could never be. “Ugh...why have I been trying to be someone different?” She can barely breath now nor move her arms. It’s only her head that leans out of this thick jungle of greenery. It’s all going to eat her alive. Maybe that was for the best.
“Boscha’s right.” A sentence she never thought she’d admit out loud said. A thorn creates a bruise where her heart is. “ Do you want me to admit how stressed I am?” She remembers throwing her voice at Boscha, using it as her weapon. Well here it is, she thinks.
“I’ll always just be half-a-witch Willow.”
And then the thorns cover more than just her heart. They stabbed her glasses, forced themselves into her ribs. The thought comes to her that closing her head may help.
Just a bit of rest. She’ll express her sorry’s later.