‘You promised you wouldn’t.’
‘Oops.’ Her pupils were blown. She smelled like Magic.
‘Your mother said-‘
‘Don’t.’ Her eyes flashed and bright sparks shot from her fingertips. He was playing with fire. They didn’t need another explosion; the neighbours hadn’t stopped asking questions about the last one.
‘You’re sick. You need help.’
She swayed, chuckling darkly. She could barely hold herself upright.
He was angry at her and her little army of broken promises. The woman he loved had almost faded, the emerald haze from that last hit suffocating her slowly. Another night like this and she would be gone.
Author’s Note: This piece came from a writing exercise I was given. The brief stated I had to write an argument but the theme was left open. I have a fondness for myth and magic and I wanted to see if I could create a plausible conversation around magic as addiction.