Our car moved through the forest-filled road. The raindrops still came down in their normal segue, each drop taking the place of the previous, almost as if it were a rehearsed dance or match. Other than the petrichor hanging heavily in the air, it also carried the scent of things that had died but refused to stay dead. I have always thought of mushrooms as nature's undead, having the ability to spring up from dead things, spread quickly, and grow — but I digress from the state of utter melancholy I am supposed to be in, or am in. I couldn't care less. Taking a quick glance at my grandmother, I find her still in the position she has been in since we started this tiresome trip that has lasted approximately six hours. I am certain that distance won't keep me from my mess, or the messes I keep getting myself into, and I am certain that she knows that. Maybe she has finally accepted that there is something wrong with me.
To understand, you would need to know that my family comes from a long line of what are called charm casters. We are born with the ability to see things — the life force in nature and other things — and when you reach the age of sixteen, you receive a charm, a gift of sorts that allows you to channel the power within you through the charm. For example, my grandmother's charm fell under the elements, specifically fire, so her powers manifested in the appearance of flames; she drew her magic from flames, and the flames don't even have to be around you. But sometimes, when a charm caster gets old, their charm fades, and in its place they receive a gift. Now my grandmother can smell fear she doesn't talk about it much but her twin, my grandaunt, can smell lies. She describes it as having a pungent, foul odor, and she avoids outings because of it.
So, with this in mind, you need to understand what it's like when you reach the age of sixteen and your charm doesn't show. It would have been easier to suppress; your peers wouldn't need to be terrified of you. But no, I chose to become an even bigger anomaly I wielded without a charm, and in no way did that make me special. It made me a problem, because wielding without a charm is like a ship without an anchor: nothing to hold you down when it is needed. It causes me to flare at anything; I can't even control it. It has made me a problem, risking the exposure of everyone, because I couldn't be normal. And now, six years later, I am moving because I flared again.
The car soon makes a turn onto a gravelled road before halting in front of a wrought-iron gate. The gate was covered in ivy, bittersweet nightshade, and rosary pea an interesting flower choice, I think to myself. Just as the gates groaned open, we drove in. I note the gravel doesn't stop outside; the driveway is lined with roses on each side. A fountain sat in front of the massive Victorian-styled house; vines were wrapped around the building. The property itself was huge and well taken care of, and even the rain doesn't seem as depressing in here. The car soon comes to a stop on the porch, where I can see my aunt in a sunny yellow dress that stood in contrast to the grey weather. She has always been a ray of sunshine with her personality and even her charm. She was emotion-based, specifically joy or happiness. She was always happy.
"Gwenny," she practically squeals, rushing towards me as she pulls me into a tight hug before pulling away to look me over. "You are so much bigger now, and beautiful." She hugs me one last time before pulling away, finally leaving me stunned. It's been a long time since anyone was happy to see me, much less hug me.
Her exchange with Grandmother was brief and somewhat perfunctory. I am not sure Grandmother has any other setting; she is stern-faced, strict, and a control freak. She always had her hair in a chignon bun and always wore dark-coloured clothes. I can't say much there even my clothes are monochromatic in tone. The most colourful things on me are my eyes and hair; my eyes are purple, the same colour as the tips of my hair. Before you assume anything I was born that way not even my grandma knows what is wrong with me.
"Welcome to my humble abode," Aunty Ariana says as we walk in. "Dinner is almost ready. Why don't you go up to your room and freshen up, Gwen?" she suggests, but I am aware it's code for 'i would like to talk to my mother.'
"Your room is the first one on the left," her voice follows me up the stairs. Stepping into the room that will be mine for whoever knows how long, I find it has a queen-sized canopy bed and lavender wallpaper with pictures of wisterias on it. The furniture, which included a vanity, desk, dresser, and side tables on each side of the bed, was a dark brown colour. The sheets were purple, the same as the throw pillows on the bay window. As soon as I sat on the bed, I felt the same oppressive feeling that has followed me like a shadow since I started wielding. It meant my grandma had conjured the shield to keep my powers from flaring. I didn't have much hope in it, mostly because a flare at a certain level, in my case, has been known to break the shield. Though every time I break it, the next time it's set up, the oppressive aura becomes stronger but still, I believe it's more of a comfort knowing there is something there just in case.