Do What You Must

“Ellimini, Griefa, Aborri, Incindi. Sisters! Elimini! Griefa! Aborri! Incindi! Speak the words!” Circia commanded.

Each witch clasped their fingers to the outstretched hands on either side. Our voices were our own, day in and day out, to command those around us with charms and enchantments, but during ritual, they were on loan to the Coven. My lips moved on their own, and I wished for a moment's respite, to swallow, wet my tongue and cease the uncomfortable feeling of sand stuck to the inside of my mouth. The hood of my robe obstructed my vision slightly. It was too big for me, or rather, I was too small for it. I didn’t need to see everything though, over the chorus of our refrain I could hear Esme’s screams loud and clear.

Circia was an unmatched witch in power and command. Her name was out of respect for her talent in Pharmakeia though her spoken magic was just as strong. She didn’t need us for this spell. Doing it as ritual magic was completely unnecessary, so I think she wanted us to bear witness. Magic in its own right, the guttural sound of Esme’s discomfort turned the blood in my veins sour as vinegar. I felt my entire body pucker as my friend, my sister, cracked open at her sternum while her floating, writhing, body was surrendered to the void of our dark arts. A split in her skin glowed bright red, and traveled down her tummy like a surgeon's knife cutting its way out of entrapment. Her cries pierced the cool air like the feedback of a microphone held too close to a speaker. The split grew down her body, connecting with another cut that grew upwards from her vulva.

“Elimini! Griefa! Aborri! Incindi!” We chanted.

“Delightful, the pain you witness on this night, sisters! Delightful! Do not forget it, for poor Esme, she gives this gift of revenge to you all! Chant! Let the very fabric of reality twist to our whim and bend to our charm. Expel from her that which would suck her dry. A seed that is no seed at all, but a stone, weighing poor Esme down, expel it from her womb, let the taint of men be gone from this place!”

It used to be that a young woman such as Esme could have a procedure done in the sterile white halls built by men, but eventually, that too became a ‘gift’ retracted along with all the rest. America, land of the free, wealthy, powerful Americans. No longer was a woman given such liberty as to consider herself free, not here, not anymore. This was our only chance of freedom now; a Coven joined at the hands, raising hell against those who would take it from us.

The gaping wound that split Esme apart was leaking crimson blood into the fresh air, floating upwards, forming globules sustained by our magic and the surface tension of their thick viscosity. Her long black hair fell back behind her and straight down to the Earth while her small, twisted, and cracked naked body fought hopelessly against power bigger than her own.

“Was this her choice, sisters? Of course not! It was not her hands that grasped at her wrists, pinning them to the ground. Nor was it her knee that drove into her side, bruising her, battering her, weakening her ‘fore the true impalement yet to come.” Circia spoke verse over our harmonic refrain.

“Keep the spell steady, sisters! Esme, my poor Esme. You were raped, and your property, your body, was stolen from you. Now, through magic, and power bigger than us all, by your choice, you succumb to the pain of birth, of a soul ripped from the cavity of your beaten body. Not the soul of a child, ney, the very soul of the one who did this to you!”

I continued to chant the spell, but did my best to lean my head back to give myself a view of Esme’s small, writhing, bloodied body. She resembled a human less than she resembled a mangled corpse, but as Circia called forth the spirit of her rapist, I heard something more bone shaking-ly terrible than Esme’s screams. She began to cackle. She began to spew the hysterics of pure evil, each shaking breath forming the laughter of malintent. No, it wasn’t her fault that she was split open then, but it was her desire now. The pain, it must have been excruciating, but to live with the reminder? To raise it as her own? To look at her child, her true love, in the eyes and see the iris of her tormentor, would be a fate worse than this.

Then, the globule drops of blood became pale, as the seed of her rapist was squeezed out from her cracked bones and torn flesh like a sponge. The mix twisted and turned above her body, bubbling and boiling until a body began to form in Esme’s exposed womb. She screamed and cackled as the hideous being was yanked out of her inch by bloody inch. The man was quiet at first, confused and in shock, but began to cry out in fear and disbelief as he experienced a live birth, caged by magic and unable to move. Esme’s screams and cackling became laced with pure satisfaction, an orgasm of relief, as the poison of her tormentor was expunged from her body, erasing the act with a new, much more excruciating one. Painful as it was, it was her choice, and that was enough to erupt satisfaction from her throat.

The man fell to the ground, with the mind of an adult, but the body of a small baby. He kicked and punched his limbs, unable to find footing, for his body was unstable and unformed.

“Good! Esme! Good! Release the spell sisters!” Circia exclaimed. We stopped chanting. I finally swallowed.

Esme floated down to the ground, her wound sealing itself back up as eerily as it had formed. She took huge gasping breaths, wiggling her fingers and toes to feel what blood she had left flowing, renewing, once again. Once she caught her breath, she put a hand on her stomach, and the other over her heart. She began to laugh, no longer an evil cackle, but the laugh of someone seeing a beautiful sunset for the first time who could hide their joy no less than the grief stricken could hide their tears. Circia pulled a draught from her satchel and fed it to Esme. She slowly and shakily got to her feet and limped towards the baby on the ground.

“You! Who are you! Tell me now! Where am I? What is this? Do you know who I am?!” The baby's body was weak and small, but its voice was deep like a man’s. If not the tone, the arrogance to command gave him away.

“You don’t… remember… me? Wee little… baby boy? You don’t… remember… wrapping… your hand… around… my throat? Shoving me… to the ground?” Esme spoke slowly between breaths.

Realization fell upon the baby’s squished face. Esme positioned the heel of her foot above the baby’s crotch and pressed down. The man’s deep voice turned infant as he squealed in pain under her foot’s oppression.

“Sisters, thus is the power in your blood. Thus is the power in our union. Lower your cloaks. Do not avert your gaze. Witness your sister and make this circle not one of perverse violence, but of righteous justice delivered by the victim. Resilience, sisters, is the true power of our Coven, of all Covens. It was never a fair fight, and never will be. Hold fast to your resilience, for any injustice may be corrected. All you have to do is limp home, to your sisters, to our Coven. Now, Esme, do what you must.”

And she did.