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Forgetting

Saving the world from organized crime one spell at a time.

By Olivia BeechPublished 3 years ago 9 min read
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Forgetting
Photo by Nighthawk Shoots on Unsplash

If you could help a criminal get away with something big for twenty thousand dollars, would you do it?

That was the question I dealt with as I stood in my little shop, surrounded by my talismans and my herbs and my medicines and my incense and my black cat, Leona, and three burly men in suits.

“I… I’m sorry?” was all I could choke out.

“Listen, I’d rather have just had the guy… you know, taken care of, but Uncle Mickey, he’s got a superstitious side, so he sent me to you,” said the man standing in front.

I tried to speak, but no words came out. I just stood stalk still with my mouth hanging open and my eyes glassy.

“Okay, can you do it or can’t you?” the man pressed.

I choked on my own voice. “I can,” I managed to say.

“Good,” the man said, nodding. “We’ll pay you five thousand now, and fifteen thousand later. That’s reasonable, right?”

“Yes,” I gasped. “But….”

The man frowned. “But what?” he said.

I stared wide-eyed at him. “It takes a weak mind,” I lied, hoping it would deter him from hiring me.

“Excuse me?”

“The spell… it only works on weak minds.”

The man laughed. Just once, and it was barely more than a scoff. “We’ve been around to see the guy. You know, to encourage him to be quiet until we could make this deal with you. From what I saw, he’s not particularly bright.”

“Okay,” I said, barely above a whisper.

“Okay,” said the man.

He reached around to his partner, taking a black briefcase and handing it to me.

“There’s the first five,” he said. “The guy’s address is in there. We expect it done tonight. We’ll stop by in the morning to see how things went.”

“My shop closes at nine,” I said, wondering why I spoke at all.

“Then go after that,” the man said.

“Okay,” I replied.

“Okay,” the man nodded. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

He then turned and waved his men to walk ahead of him. They made for the door, passing my cat who sat in the window and hissed and bristled as they went by. I stood rooted to the spot for several minutes after they left, but when I finally got feeling back in my legs, I strode briskly across the shop, flipped the open sign to “closed”, and locked the door.

I turned to look at my cat.

“I can’t do this, can I?” I said.

Leona looked at me, tail twitching irritably.

“I have to do it,” I said.

My cat licked her lips.

“I can’t do it,” I said.

My cat began to lick a paw and wipe her face.

“What am I going to do.”

So I did what I always did when I didn’t know what to do; I went to The Book.

My living quarters were located above the shop. I jogged up the narrow staircase, snaked through my small and cluttered living room, and strode to my bedside table. In the drawer, slightly obscured by a pile of scrap papers, was a little black notebook. It was a small, neatly bound thing with an elastic band running around its body from top to bottom. Inside dwelt the answers to everything; every saying I’d ever heard my grandmother utter.

I slipped the band off the book and began flipping through: Brushing your teeth every day keeps the demons away. Don’t hold grudges; nobody cares about those except you. Find a way to do a little bit of what you love every day. Singing is for birds; we should all be like them.

I scanned her quotes, hoping desperately to find just the right one. The knot in my chest continued to tighten as I worried that I would fail in my search, that even my grandmother didn’t have the answers.

But then I saw it;

The fox is smart, but the hare is smarter; it knows where all its bolt holes are.

I looked up from the book, “I can figure my way out of this.”

I began to concoct a plan.

~

The apartment building was grungy. Dirty walls, yellow lights, worn and sticky carpet, and dingy apartment numbers on the doors. I clutched my spellbook tight to my chest as I knocked on the door labeled “11”. I liked eleven. Eleven was my lucky number.

The door opened only a few inches (thanks to the chain) and a worried-looking man peered out.

“What is it?” he asked, his voice quivering.

“Hi! Are you Michael?” I said. He nodded, so I continued; “I’m Melony. Can I come in?”

“Why? What do you want?” Michael replied.

“I want to help you,” I said.

“How?”

I thought about it for a second. “I’m a witch.”

He looked confused.

I decided to elaborate. “I’m here to help you forget. But only for a little while.”

His confusion morphed slowly to determination. He shut the door and I heard the chain being undone before he let me in.

His apartment was sparse, but nowhere near as filthy as the hallway. There were certainly things about it that were poorly maintained, but everything the apartment dweller had control over was well managed.

“Um, have a seat?” he said uncertainly.

“Thank you,” I said, sitting down on a couch that was clearly from a thrift store. Michael sat down in the other available armchair, also a thrifty object.

“Soooo, you say you can make me forget?” Michael asked.

I nodded. “It’s a variation on an elaborate spell. Forgetfulness. I can make you forget the last three days for the next three days. And while you’re all forgetful, I will have time to work a much more powerful Forgetfulness spell on the people who know you saw… what you saw. Then you can go to the police when your memory comes back, and none of them will know that you had anything to do with it. You’ll be safe.”

Michael listened intently, but skepticism was obvious on his face. He looked away from me for a few moments, then back with a furrowed brow.

“I don’t really believe in magic,” he said.

“A lot of people don’t,” I said.

“Then why should I let you do this?” he asked.

I shrugged. “If it works, we’ll all be better off. If it doesn’t, you’ve just let me mumble some words over your body.”

“I guess that makes sense. No harm in trying,” he agreed. “But why ask me first? And how are you going to do this to every person in the gang who know about my involvement?”

“Well I can work lots of spells from a distance, but I wanted you to know the plan so you could go to the police right when you wake up and remember everything that’s happened,” I said. “I also need some of your hair to target you as what the bad guys are forgetting.” I pulled out a little vial and waggled it between my fingers.

Michael gave a single nod. He sat and thought on it for a moment.

“Well… okay,” he finally said.

“Okay!” I chirped. “Well, hair first–,” I reached over and plucked a couple strands from Michael’s head, making him flinch, “–and now the spell. It’ll put you to sleep, so go lie down wherever you want to spend the night.”

Michael popped his shoes off and headed for his bedroom. I flipped to the page in my spellbook I had marked with an arrow-shaped sticky note.

~

I flopped onto my bed like a sack of potatoes, exhausted from two nights in a row of intense spellcasting. I just about fell asleep then and there, but I knew I would only sleep well in my pajamas and forced my eyes back open, hoping that act would summon my will to stand back up.

I instead turned my head over to look at the black briefcase on my bedside stand. My black cat sat on top of it. I smiled. The hand off had gone well that morning.

“We stopped by the guy’s apartment today,” said the man standing in front of his two henchmen in the middle of my shop. “He didn’t seem to remember us.”

“Good,” I said. “That spell doesn’t always take,” I lied.

“Well, I’m sure we’re all very glad it did,” said the man.

He reached back to one of his henchmen, who produced a black briefcase. The man handed it to me.

“Here’s the rest of your… compensation. I hope you find it satisfactory,” he said.

“Thank you,” I replied.

“Uncle Mickey was very pleased with your work,” said the man. “We may have to stop by again sometime.”

I nodded and the man and his goons walked out of my shop. I added my own hair to the Forgetfulness spell I cast that night.

I levered myself up on my bed, leaning on my elbows, and looked at my cat.

“What am I going to do with that money?” I asked Leona. “Do I have to give it to the police?”

“A criminal’s money? Maybe,” my cat said, sitting up and washing her face with a paw.

“Why do you only speak in the apartment? The customers would get a kick out of it if you spoke to them,” I said.

“And get stolen and sold to the circus? No, thank you,” my cat shook her head in distaste.

“But really, what am I going to do?” I persisted.

“I mean, you did your job,” said my cat. “Spellcasting is literally one of the services listed on your chalkboard downstairs. What you did wasn’t illegal, whether or not the customer came by their money honestly before it got to you. You probably did a lot more for taking down organized crime working your spells than if you had done nothing. You earned that money.”

“Soooo… I have twenty thousand dollars now?” I said.

My cat stopped grooming and looked me dead in the eye. “We have twenty thousand dollars.”

I laughed, first at my cat, then again in disbelief and sudden realization. “Holy crap, twenty thousand dollars!” I exclaimed. “What in the world am I going to do with twenty thousand dollars?”

“Canned cat food instead of dry,” said Leona, resuming her cleaning.

“On the list,” I replied. “Maybe I can give some to charity.”

“As long as there’s enough left over for my cat food,” Leona insisted.

“Yes, of course, of course,” I replied. Then I sighed and stood up. “Well, I can think more about this tomorrow. Man… twenty thousand dollars….”

Then I stopped. “Oh dear. How do I claim this on my taxes?”

Leona rolled her eyes.

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About the Creator

Olivia Beech

Ruminations on nature, wonderings about existence, adventures into the other-worldly; follow me as I plunge into stories both fictional and real.

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