The Boy Witch

Chapter 8

When Miles woke up the next morning, his whole body hurt. He felt like he had slept with a mountain weighing him down. Somehow, he managed to get up on his feet, disturbing Mortimer who had been lying on his chest. His head pounded with a powerful headache. Stumbling, he walked to the bathroom and took a shower. Dried blood washed off in the water, circling down the drain. Miles scrubbed himself down, but he struggled to feel clean. But, remembering what he did the previous night, what he was able to do, reassured him.

Walking out of the bathroom, fully dressed, Miles was greeted by his mother’s familiar scream.

“What did you do?!” She yelled.

“What do you mean?” Miles replied, genuinely confused. His voice betrayed his pain.

“Don’t play stupid with me,” Mallory spat. “It’s all over the news. Those kids that died in the bus crash. They’re all alive.”

Miles had not thought about how the news would report the kids’ resuscitation. But he figured indeed that it would be newsworthy. “Well, I guess I can revive more than roadkill,” Miles sassed his mother. He felt so proud and he wanted to shove it in her face.

“You piece of shit,” Mallory growled. Her anger boiled over and she threw an empty bottle at her son with all her strength.

In a panic, Miles raised his hand to stop the blow. But much to his surprise, the bottle stopped in its tracks, in mid-air. Miles stared for a second before dropping his hand, the bottle following suit and crashing on the ground, breaking into several pieces.

Mallory was shocked, and only made angrier by this display of new powers. “You can move objects too?” She asked. “I hate you so much. I wish you had never been born.” She spat her words like venom.

“It’s a little too late for that,” Miles replied. He knew she had tried to get rid of him many times before, in ways more gruesome than the next, but she had always failed.

As his mother grumbled some more, before grabbing another bottle of alcohol, an intact one that was not empty, and taking a swig, Miles picked up a broom and swept the shards of glass on the floor. He then retreated to his room, unwilling to listen to his mother’s angry musings. She was talking about how powerful a witch she used to be, how Miles has sapped her of her power, how Miles was the worst son ever. Her words got increasingly violent and hateful. Miles could still hear her in his room.

Still shaken by his new discovery, Miles packed his schoolbag with the supplies he needed for the day. There was no time to grab breakfast, or maybe he did not want to take the time. Giving Mortimer one last snuggle, Miles left for school, leaving behind his abusive mother, but knowing he would soon return to her. He had no choice.

***

Miles always dreaded school, but it was not worse than home. Really, Miles was not comfortable anywhere. He wished he could be. He had to admit that looking at other teens, who were so confident and probably had lovely family lives, filled him with envy.

Sitting in class, Miles felt out of place, among his peers. He tried to listen to the math teacher, an older substitute, as best as he could, but he was focused instead on the lingering pain in his head and on his newfound powers.

Making sure nobody was paying attention to him, Miles placed his pencil with which he was taking notes down on his desk, and focused his mind on it, trying to move it with a flick of his hand. His headache only intensified as he focused, but he did not stop. He was intent on making the pencil move. And eventually it did, ever so slightly. Miles celebrated quietly.

“Miles?” The teacher’s voice called.

Miles looked up suddenly. “What?” He asked, confused.