Little Red Riding Witch

[Rosalynd]

“ROSALYND!!!!” Gary, the director of “Evenings with Enchantra,” bellows from across the room, like a flatulent walrus, his jowls flapping.

“Sir?” I respond meekly as I trip clumsily over my own feet, catching a vase full of artificial flowers. Not that I had to worry about it breaking. Everything is plastic: designed to look appealing but containing no substance.

“I don’t care what you have to do,” he spat in my face, chunks of half-chewed donut landing on the lenses of my practical, yet stylish, glasses. “We cannot delay the filming any longer. Enchantra needs to be on set in 15 minutes or I’ll find someone younger to replace her.”

I don’t deserve this abuse, but as my mom’s assistant, this kind of thing happens almost daily.

“We need to get this Halloween special filmed and edited by the end of this week!” Gary reminds me as I march down the hall.

“Yes, Sir!” I salute giving him a backward wave as I leave the room.

“If she isn’t here and ready to go, tell her we’re through!”

I have no idea how I am going to get her ready in time. She tends to be extra dramatic on filming day, Her natural tendency towards procrastination is enhanced by stress-induced anxiety, she is a nightmare to be around. Like a cyclone, she creates disaster as she moves through a room, causing havoc in her wake.

`The last time she was late it was because her latest “plaything” had dumped her. She was depressed and despondent, crying off her makeup, her face red and blotchy. We lost half a day of filming to her foul mood. This time, who knows what it could be? Maybe they put the wrong color M&Ms in her dressing room again. She threw a fit the last time she got a mixed-color bag instead of her preferred green.

“The green ones are an aphrodisiac,” my mother had explained. “Everyone knows that.”

Everything Enchantra did had to be either “dramatic” or “sexy.” She didn’t do “boring” or “basic.”

Except for having me. A plain, boring, shy daughter with nothing remarkable about her.

My entire life, my mother has made sure to remind me that I am the most “basic” thing she has ever created.

As I walk down the hall, I pull my phone out of the leather satchel which I wear strapped across my chest. I flip through my text messages, hoping to see something from my sometimes boyfriend, Hunter. Lately, I’ve gotten the feeling that he might be trying to break up with me. I’m a bit hurt, but not entirely surprised. Boys never stayed interested in me for very long. They were often disappointed that the daughter of The Enchantra Grey was, well...me. Hunter, like all of the others before him, probably realized he could do so much better.

I have noticed that recently, everything has changed between us. No more cute “just because” text messages. No more surprise flowers. We’ve only gone on two dates in the last two months, and each time he’d drop me back off at my house, he would tell me he needed to rush off to rehearse with his band. I know that keeping a relationship alive when both parties seem to be overwhelmed can be difficult, but I have been willing to do whatever is needed to make it work. I even took time off from school to help his band with food runs, only to have him get mad one night when I stopped by with dinner for everyone. He told me that I was “embarrassing him” and being “smothering” and that as a couple we needed to spend some time apart because he “needed more space” to focus on his music.

I know what that means.

I close my phone, sighing as I reach the end of the hallway. An oversized gold star adorns the red door of my mother’s dressing room, “Enchantra Grey” written across it in a bold, cursive font. As I lift my hand to knock, I stop. Coming from behind the door, I hear the rapid breathing and moaning of two people in the middle of a carnal act.

Not again.

Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I bang on the door. “Mother!! You need to be on set in 15 minutes!”

The moaning in the background started to grow louder, as if tuning me out was turning her on.

“Enchantra!!” I shout again, banging harder. “You need to finish up, NOW, or you’re going to lose your job!”.

I stood outside her room for another 5 minutes before the banging and moaning stopped. A minute later, my mom opened her door a crack, her dyed red curls hanging over her face in disarray.

“Oh, you’re still here” She giggles. I don’t know why, nothing about this situation is amusing.

“Gary wants you on stage...” I look down at my watch, “...in 10 minutes.”

Her brightly-colored patterned silk robe barely covers her engorged breasts, even with her hand holding it shut. I can easily see the outline of her stimulated nipples pressing taut across the fabric.

Behind her, a hand reaches around to grab her at her crotch playfully. “Stop it!” she slaps his hand with a friendly swat, giggling again.

Pinching my nose and closing my eyes behind my glasses I try to erase what I just saw from my memory.

“Tell Gary I’ll be in makeup in 5 minutes” Her face turned away, all attention on the person behind her. “Now shoo” she dismisses me with a wave of her hand before slamming the door in my face.

“Fine,” I say under my breath.

I turn and begin to head back up the hallway when I hear a masculine chuckle followed by, “Is she gone, babe?”

I stand frozen in place, my heartbeat loud and fast in my ears.

I’d know that rough-edged voice anywhere.

I’m not usually the jealous type, but something began to burn inside me. Turning around and knocking on the door again, I get no response other than increasing moans. Taking another deep breath I do something I promised myself I’d never do again. I pull out my key and unlock the door.

Inside my mother is lying on top of her makeup table, its contents spread all over the floor in a fit of passion, her legs in the air in a wide V shape. Between her legs is a young man eating her out like she is the most delicious fish taco he has ever tasted.

“Oh god, babe, your pussy tastes so good!” The young man says before going down again. She grabs a fistful of his bleach-blond hair in response. My cheeks are flushed red with both embarrassment and anger. She begins pulling his head up and down, controlling the movement of his tongue as it moves in and out of her slit.

Unable to watch anymore, I rush outside of the room, slamming the door.

Trying not to vomit, I removed Hunter’s contact number from my phone.

And then I began to run.