she isn't what she says

Chapter 25: Night time

'She was a villian that didn't mean she was bad it meant she was misunderstood and left alone to be eaten away by the darkeness.' - Unknown

The Obscurus' Point of view:

It all started when the girl was six.

Valencia, she was called. The poor little thing, so twisted, so abused. Hiding so many dark, delicious little secrets. So much...power. She needed someone to protect her. Someone to watch out for her. The harder she tried to hide who she really was, the more she needed me. The more he needed me, the bigger I grew.

Her first experience with accidental magic was just like any other kid; Valencia got upset, and something just happened. A mug she'd been holding shattered in her hands. Her pinched-face uncle with anger issues and a strong hand with a belt had scolded her for being so clumsy, and made her clean up the mess, then sent her to bed without dinner. The shameful tears that filled her wide brown eyes he attributed to simple childhood fear.

She didn't know the surge he'd felt when the ceramic shattered under her fingers. The rush that pulsed in her veins. How good it felt. How wrong it felt.

She went only too willingly to her bed, curled up with her knees to her chest as she stared at the pilfered piece of broken crockery that sat on her bedspread. "What's happening?" she whispered to no one, she did wand less magic.

She fought. She fought hard, and she fought bloody against his impulses. Every time that barest little tickle of promise began at the back of her neck, that addictive tingle danced across her fingers tips, she would slam it back into an iron box. For such a weak little thing, she had remarkable self-control. And the more she pushed back, the bigger I grew. Her misery was irresistible. I fed on it, used it to fuel my rage against the world that forced her to keep her true self so stifled.

But she never gave me the chance to defend her. Always in that box, always on that leash. Sometimes, late at night when his cousin was asleep, she would talk to me. Hushed whispers spoken to the dark. Desperate tears of loneliness and despair, of shame and guilt for her impulses she had no control over, no help with. I couldn't answer her back in the usual way, but she knew I was there. Felt me move, comfort and coax her into trying, just a little.

But she never caved.

Then something changed. A man with a rough voice and a long coat approached her in an alley, offered her another way. Valencia was scared, but I? Oh, I wanted more. The man had a pull, a darkness that called to me. Wanted me. It stoked a fire in me I had long since banked at the behest of the girl.

Oh God, it felt so good.

At first, Valencia resisted. But the man had a silver tongue, made her feel worthy. He could see the magic I knew Valencia had, promised to cultivate it in her. Give him the home I knew the girl deserved. So I did my part too, from the shadows. Pushed her to accept the offer, help the man. In the end, she was seduced by promises, by attention and tenderness, and lingering touches.

But I had selfish reasons for wanting more time with the man. His presence gave me my own kind of power. I found freedom in Valencia's budding anger, unleashing violence at will when I slipped the leash. Maybe it was because she let her guard down around the man. Or maybe it was because he began to believe he was special. Not much, the broken girl, but just enough that I could overpower her, when she was hurt just right. So I could show her what she could do.

There was something different, intoxicating about targeted, intentional destruction. I could feel it pulse through every fiber of my being, spiraling and growing bigger and more powerful. Doing my best to keep my promise, I took down the building beside the castle and up into the sky.

She knew. She couldn't see me, but she could feel me. The same way I could feel her. Our darkness called to each other, needed each other. I wondered if he could see me in the girl. If that was why he chose Valencia.

I rose from the rubble of the house, flying right past him and down the block. Chase me, I taunted, feeling him follow me out into the street.

Catch me if you can.

...

Valencia  is familiar with asphyxiation. (deprivation of oxygen)

Because whenever Valencia bursts into black fog, the sensation of losing her breath and physical life is so close and memorable. It's painful and it hurts but it's become so familiar because it happens far too many times.

Gasping for air and constrictions in her chest, hands clawing at something tangible to get a good grip of, to keep her anchored. Splitting into the kinetic mass that is the Obscurus is a strange feeling, like that of nothingness, of being underwater, and at the same time feeling like she's flying. The lack of a physical body always comes with the thought of breathlessness, and whenever she comes back to herself she's always panting, always needing to get a good lungful that grounds her.

It's become something comforting. She doesn't understand it, but it's the only thing that's holding her down sometimes. She takes deep breaths, but it's not enough. The ache in her chest burns and spreads as it demands oxygen, yet still not sufficient to sate her lungs. She's both panicked but it's familiar. She clings to every breath until she's whole again.

She transforms whenever she feels at her worst, especially at night time. Sometimes she can control it, sometimes she can't. She flies around the grounds of the castle, destroying anything in her way. It feels good to get her anger out. 

There's only one problem.

Valencia's the only Obscurus left. 

So if anyone found out, especially the Dark Lord and her family. 

The world would be over.

Sadly, someone saw her transform back to her normal self.