When I Think of Magic...

When I Think of Magic: The Diary of Camille

(Sensitive Content Warning: Sexual Violence (harassment), Mental Health, Physical Violence (no gore/non-graphic), stalking)

When I think of magic, I think about the time my grandma and I were baking magic brownies for her neighbor, Mr. Hastings. I was ten years old then. Mr. Hastings, George, would flirt with my mom every day. Every time she stepped outside, he was always stepping out of his house, too. For the most part, she was merely annoyed by it, but it was never enough to take action—just a nuisance, not a real problem. One day, he became a little bolder, touching her arm, her hand, trying to keep her engaged in conversation, and repeatedly asking her out. That was the moment my grandma decided it was time for some magic. So, we baked brownies infused with what my grandma called an "impotence potion." I didn’t know what that meant at the time, but I knew it worked. Eric didn’t seem interested in touching her or asking her out anymore.

When I think of magic, I remember the day my mother let our neighbor’s old cat inside. I was twelve, watching from just around the doorway, while she performed her quiet ritual. Ms. Ables, an elderly woman whose husband had died in war, never remarried or had children—her cat was her entire world. My mom anointed the cat with a special oil and recited a spell. After an hour of silence, the energy flowing between them, the cat looked healthier, younger even. Its fur shimmered with vitality. For months after, Mom was in a dark place—her health declined, and she seemed depressed. One day, Dad asked me to help care for her while he attended a work meeting. Desperate, I dug through her Book of Shadows and found a spell for transference—a spell that could draw her ailments into myself. I was only twelve, still a child, but I cast it anyway. It seemed to help her, at least a little. Her health improved, her mood lifted. But I was different. I felt more alive, more vulnerable. Mom grounded me, calling my magic reckless, saying I wasn’t old enough to understand the costs. There’s always a price, she warned—good or bad.

When I think of magic, I recall the summer I was seventeen, and my best friend was head over heels for the new guy in town. He was older, attending the local community college. She begged me to cast a love spell, to make him notice her. I knew love spells were tricky—if done wrong, the consequences could be devastating. But naïve and invincible, I agreed. I performed the spell, believing I could control everything. But the fallout was swift and harsh—she and her family changed their names and moved away, and the guy was eventually placed in an asylum. We lost touch, but she kept my secret that I was a witch.

When I think of magic, I remember my eighteenth birthday, the night I was gifted my own Book of Shadows—an ancient, treasured heirloom from my great-grandma. That night, I dared to cast my first spell from it… And, in my clumsiness, I set the book on fire. Thankfully, our books are protected by magic, or I’d have been in real trouble. That was the night I truly understood how powerful and dangerous magic could be.

When I think of magic, I recall a few years later, during my university days, the consequences of those past spells caught up with me. I had a strange, unsettling feeling—like I was being watched. My physics professor would sometimes follow me home after night classes, even when I wasn’t aware of it. It terrified me, and I kept it to myself, afraid to reveal my magical mistakes to my family. I consulted my Book of Shadows, which had a strange way of guiding me. It nudged me toward a “sleeping curse,” a spell meant to put someone into a coma. I gathered most of the ingredients from my garden, except for baker’s yeast, which I had to buy. I mixed the yeast with dried nightshade, powdered moonstone, and a lock of my own hair, chanting the words from the ancient text. The potion bubbled and frothed, a sickly green vapor rising from the cauldron. I knew the risks, the irreversible nature of such a powerful curse, but the fear of my professor outweighed all caution. The next day, I slipped the concoction into his coffee, watching as he took a sip. Within minutes, his eyes glazed over, and he slumped forward, falling into a deep, unnatural sleep right there in the lecture hall. He never woke up. The university attributed it to a sudden, inexplicable illness, and I was free. But the weight of that act, the profound silence that followed, became a new kind of shadow in my life.

When I think of magic, I remember the quiet desperation of my late twenties, when the world felt heavy and joy seemed a distant memory. The sleeping curse had worked, but it had also left a void, a chilling understanding of the power I wielded and the solitude that often accompanied it. I found myself drawn to ancient texts, seeking not power, but balance. I discovered a series of rituals focused on healing, on drawing positive energy from the earth and the stars. I spent countless nights under the moon, meditating, weaving intricate spells of self-restoration. It was a slow, arduous process, but gradually, the darkness began to recede. I learned to channel my magic not as a weapon, but as a balm, a way to mend the fractured pieces within myself.

When I think of magic, I think of the small, everyday wonders I now embrace. The way my garden flourishes with vibrant, impossible blooms, each petal infused with a whisper of my intent. The comforting warmth that radiates from my hands when I soothe a friend’s headache, a gentle hum of energy flowing between us. The subtle shifts in the weather, a sudden burst of sunshine after a long rain, sometimes feel like a personal blessing. It’s no longer about grand, dramatic spells, but about the quiet, persistent magic that weaves through the fabric of my life, a constant reminder of the unseen forces that connect us all. It’s in the way a forgotten memory resurfaces, offering a new perspective, or in the unexpected kindness of a stranger —a ripple effect of positive energy that I’ve learned to cultivate.

When I think of magic, I remember the quiet joy of helping others, not with grand gestures, but with subtle nudges of fate. There was a young woman in my town, struggling to find her path, feeling lost and unseen. I wove a simple charm of clarity and courage into a small, unassuming stone, leaving it where she would find it. A few weeks later, I saw her, eyes bright, confidently pursuing a new passion. The magic wasn’t in controlling her destiny, but in illuminating her own inner strength, a gentle push towards the light she already possessed. It was a silent, satisfying magic, a true reflection of the balance I had finally found.

When I think of magic, I realize it’s not just about what I can do, but what it has done to me. It has shaped my understanding of the world, deepened my empathy, and taught me the profound interconnectedness of all things. It’s a responsibility, a gift, and a constant journey of discovery. And sometimes, when the moon is full and the air is still, I still feel the echoes of those early, reckless spells, a faint tremor of power that reminds me of where I came from, and how far I’ve grown. The magic isn’t just in the casting; it’s in the living, in the quiet wisdom gained from every triumph and every consequence. It is, in essence, the story of my life.

When I think of magic, I see it woven into every thread of existence—in the resilience of a tiny seed pushing through concrete, in the unspoken understanding between old friends, in the quiet strength of a sunrise. It’s not about bending the world to my will, but about aligning with its inherent rhythm, finding harmony in its mysteries. It is the breath of life, the pulse of the universe, and the quiet, persistent whisper that reminds me I am part of something infinitely vast and beautiful. It is, quite simply, everything.