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Walk, walk, walk the road, I walk the windy road.
The second Agatha was met with the sight of amber skies and grass swaying in some gentle breeze, she swore under her breath. Apparently, she’d fallen asleep at the campfire down the Witches’ Road. Sleep meant dreams. Dreams meant three options:
ONE: Reliving Nicholas’ death and pretending, for the love of all things unholy, that she was desensitized.
TWO: Being trapped in the Scarlet Witch’s hellish sitcom, forced to wear frilly ‘50s dresses as nothing more than the nosy neighbor.
THREE: Interacting with her dead son in some idealized landscape.
Agatha loathed option three.
It was always something different. Maybe Nicky was peeking over the bridge of a duck pond. Scrambling over those plastic playgrounds mortals made to keep their kids busy. Sometimes he was collecting seashells at a beach. The sun was always too bright, the sky too clear, and the air smelled of rain even when the setting was dry as a bone.
Tonight, it seemed to be a field of wildflowers under some bright azure sky. The boy sat cross-legged amongst the blooms with a crown of grass and dandelions in his lap. He had that stray lock of hair on his nape that never stayed down. The scratch on his chin from when he tumbled as a little one. It was how he’d earned his last name: Nicholas Scratch. Agatha remembered how small he’d seemed that day, crying over a barely-there cut and pointing accusingly at the stick he’d tripped on. It might’ve been ridiculous, but she cracked that stick in two just to satisfy his need for ‘revenge,’ or whatever four-year-olds wanted when they hated a piece of wood.
Walk, walk, walk the road, we walk the windy road.
Agatha moved to stand by this vision of her child, who hummed and sang in a voice she’d never forget. At the sound of leaves crunching beneath her boots, Nicholas turned and looked up at her.
“Hi, Momma!” His eyes were that perfect shade of deep emerald.
“Hey,” Agatha said. With a sigh, she lowered herself onto the ground beside him.
The boy frowned. “You look tired.”
Agatha managed a short, bitter laugh, gaze fixed on the horizon. All around them, there was nothing but imaginary flowers and perfect sky. “What gave me away,” she replied curtly, “the bags under my eyes?”
Nicholas’ frown deepened. If he hadn’t been some figment of her imagination, Agatha might’ve felt some semblance of guilt. “I can cheer you up,” he told her. “What if we played a game? Or sang a song? Or–”
The woman banged her fist on the soil beside her. The world flickered. For a split-second, the sky turned dark. Then, in the blink of an eye, reality shifted back to its usual cheery skies and glistening blooms.
“You think I want to sing a song right now?” She hissed. “What, you think I wanna sing Windy Road when I’ve spent centuries without… Without…”
Her gaze fell on the boy, shaking like a leaf on the grass beside her. He wasn’t real, but God did it seem like it.
Agatha’s lips parted, then closed. “I’m sorry,” she managed. “It isn’t your fault. You’re just some… Memory of my dead child. You never asked for this.”
“Memory?” Nicholas blinked. His eyes widened. “But, Momma–”
“You’re not real.”
“Momma, wait, I–”
· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·
Before Nicholas Scratch could finish his sentence, Agatha woke up to find herself staring up at Teen. Teen, with his brows furrowed and a blossoming bruise on his cheek. The night sky loomed behind him, occasionally accompanied by some drifting ember from the campfire.
“Agatha,” Teen said. “You punched me in your sleep.”
Agatha blinked. “What?”
“I was sleeping near you,” he explained, pointing towards his bruise. “and your fist flew like, right into my face.”
“And I should care because…?”
Teen frowned, mumbling: “An apology would’ve been nice.” He moved off her and offered his hand. “Anyway, Lilia says we should get moving. The next trial doesn’t seem too far away.”
Agatha ignored his hand, rising to her feet and glancing apprehensively at her fellow witches. As per usual, Lilia, Alice and Jennifer were staring at her with skepticism. They didn’t trust her– Never had, never will– And that was just fine by Agatha’s standards.
Rio, on the other hand, held her gaze with that sincerity Agatha hated so much. She knew her. Maybe she knew her too well.
The world seemed to narrow when Rio approached, standing a mercifully safe distance away. “Agatha,” Rio said. “You spoke to him again.”
Agatha felt her blood run cold. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she scoffed lightly, attempting to push past her.
The green witch simply stepped sideways to block her path. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
Teen, who was apparently still standing in their general vicinity, cleared his throat. “Hi, so, what’s going on?”
“None of your business,” Agatha’s eyes remained locked on her. “Let’s talk about this some other time–”
“He’s upset,” Rio replied cryptically. “You lashed out at him.”
At this point, Agatha was thoroughly disconcerted. The other woman seemed to be playing mind-games, and Agatha’s pride wouldn’t allow her to back down. “He wasn’t real,” she retorted. “It didn’t matter.”
“You don’t understand, do you?”
Rio stepped back, now slipping her hands into her pockets. “The next time you sleep, apologize to him.”
As the witch walked away, it took several seconds for Agatha to realize the full meaning of her words. Her eyes widened. Her lips parted.
“Shit.”