CÉLESTE

Once we were upstairs and out of earshot of our aunt I turned to my Dearest little brother. "How exactly are we going to freshen up," I asked in a proper English accent. My hand absentmindedly went up to my now haphazardly cut up do. "It's not like we can pull clothing out of thin air."

"Mama ain't zactlay widout huh bag ah tricks, Gull," Célestine shot back as he sat his over-sized duffel bag down on the of the steps and rummaged through it for a few minutes before he drew out a set of Maude camel pajamas and a rather suspect ball of black lacy fabric.

"Thongs? Really," I said as I unrolled that suspect ball of fabric to see what it was.

"Don't worry, they've never been worn and this is only temporary until we go shopping in the morning," Célestine said as though he were talking to an annoying child whom he's explaining something to for the umpteenth time.

"But, thongs. Who wears those other than male strippers?"

"I, for one. C'mon, Mister Joan Rivers. You could do with a bit of edge to your otherwise drab and posh ensembles. And if they're not to your liking you can always go without."

"And, you, Mister Miss Osborne, could use another color that isn't green, black, or metallic" I shot back before adding, "And how exactly are we going to go shopping when we're broker than modern day MC Hammer?"

"You remember Gramps' diamond watch with the platinum number and Grams' white gold and emerald choker? Well, I sold off the watch and a few other things. And, no, myself is not included in those other things."

"Don't be vulgar. It terribly proletarian."

"And you say that like it's a bad thing. You, Mr. Troglodyte, just remember that anyone you wed will be a mésalliance not seen since Sir Hugh Marcy and Kitty."

"That's a rather big word for you. I'm surprised you didn't choke on it." I shot back. "But, kudos, for choosing to reference Kitty over My Fair Lady."

"Funny," Célestine said in a voice that could have melted a polar ice cap in two seconds flat. I could tell he wanted to add something to the effect of: "I'd like to choke you." I'm glad he didn't. I don't know how I'd have reacted, not after what had just happened. It had been twenty-nine hours later (twenty-nine hours forty-six minutes to be exact) and one thousand nine hundred and forty-six point seven miles later and I could still feel his callused and clammy hands pressing into the hollow of my throat. 

"I'm going to go shower, now," I said rather sedately, slightly fearful of Célestine's sudden change of mood.

"You do that. I'm doing something to your hair when you get out. And for fu– for goodness sake, warse that blood off your face. You're a sight."

"Yes, Mother," I added with an half-felt roll of my eyes as a left and went to go shower.
 

As the hot water pounded my cold tender flesh I attempted the Alcidesian task of forgetting, for however brief a spell, the events that lead to this great exodus. This proved to be an impossible task; this was the Augean Stables and this makeshift Hercules has found that all the rivers have turned to dust.

I felt the heat from the water soaking into my tense muscles, the soreness I didn't know was there. As I stood there, feeling the weariness seeping from my bones down the drain in a slow lethargic spiral with the soap suds, a sudden rush of energy over came me. 

One moment, I was cold down to the bone, in spite of the overly hot water that should have scalded my skin and left it the color of red hots. The next, I was so suddenly ho that I had to turn the knob for the hot water all the way off and crank up the cold water to max. And It still wasn't enough.

I felt as if I were in fire. My whole body was being consumed by the fires of my own suppressed emotions. The pool of hate for the man I called father became as an unfathomable ocean of rage fill the brim with gasoline and this sudden release of emotions was a lit match.

I could feel my wound healing themselves. It was like watching someone remove makeup. Once there was an ugly blackbird-blue mark under the eye, and then, there was naught. It rather reminded me of the old adage about the doctor healing curing himself before he attempted to cure his patients.

And just like that, I accepted the fact that I was a witch, as Célestine had been trying to tell me all along (in the oh so subtle of ways he had about him). He is a Sybil and I ... I am a healer. There was no way around it. It was there and indelible as the scent of a snuff out candle; a light switched on in a darkened room. Where hungry and insatiable ignorance once resided there was now satisfied and enlightened realization. an unimpeachable knowledge. A flensed, hard-boned, and irrevocable truth. I was ... nay, am ... different. I am a witch, and there is nothing, nothing at all, that can be done about it.

There was something else that came to my attention. My manhood was a mass of angry red raging hard flesh. I switched to cold water, letting it hit my turid muscle at full force. It didn't help one bit. I filpped the knob back to hot water and couldn't resist running my hand over my painfully erect member. I couldn't stop the moan that excaped from between my lips. I ran my fingers down the lenght or my turgid member. Three strokes and my seed was slowly sliding down the tiled wall of the shower.