Chapter 4: The Witch's Next Lesson
The break room smelled like someone had tried to cover up the smell of bleach with lemon-scented air freshener and failed. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a low, constant hum that drilled into the back of Aaliyah's skull. The linoleum floor was the color of old teeth. A vending machine in the corner rattled and sighed like it was dying.
She sat in her wheelchair at the Formica table. Her hands were in her lap. She hadn't moved in ten minutes.
Her shift was over. She'd spent two hours in the cuddle room with Briony, held and stroked and whispered to, and now her body felt like a bruise that someone kept pressing. Her chest ached. Her scalp tingled where Briony's fingers had combed through her hair. And between her legs, that unfamiliar heat still pulsed, slow and shameful, a reminder that her body was no longer hers.
The door opened.
Morrigan Vex stepped inside, closed the door behind her, and locked it with a click that echoed off the tile. She was wearing black again—a fitted dress that ended just above her knees, heels that made her already-tall frame tower. Her hair was loose, streaked with purple that caught the harsh light and turned it into something almost beautiful.
In her hand was a clipboard. She held it like a teacher holding a grade book.
"Hello, Aaliyah."
Aaliyah's mouth went dry. She tried to speak and the tongue stud clicked. She tried again. "What do you want?"
"Want is such a small word." Morrigan crossed the room and pulled out a folding chair. She set it across from Aaliyah and sat, crossing her legs at the ankle. The clipboard rested on her knee. "I want many things. But right now, I want to check on my investment."
"I'm not an investment."
"You're a project. A very expensive, very time-consuming project. And I've been waiting centuries to find someone worth the effort." Morrigan tilted her head. "So far, you're exceeding expectations."
Aaliyah gripped the arms of her wheelchair. The padding was thin, the metal cold. "What did you do to me?"
"I already told you. I gave you what you earned."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're getting." Morrigan uncapped a pen and made a note on her clipboard. "Now. Phase one is complete. You've been introduced to your new body. You've been touched by a client. You've experienced the first memory loss." She looked up. "How do you feel?"
"Like I want to die."
"That's normal. The first day is always the worst. But you'll adjust." She made another note. "You're already forgetting things, aren't you? Little things. The name of your childhood pet. Your mother's birthday. The word for—" She paused. "What's the word for the thing you sit on?"
"Chair."
"Correct. But what about the thing you drink from?"
Aaliyah blinked. The word was there, somewhere, but it felt slippery. "Cup."
"Yes. And the thing you use to write?"
"Pen."
"Good. Your semantic memory is still intact. That's important. We need you functional." Morrigan set the clipboard aside. "But now comes the real work. Phase two."
"What's phase two?"
"Your education." Morrigan rose from her chair and walked behind Aaliyah. Her heels clicked on the linoleum with each step. "You've been given a female body. Now you need to learn how to use it. How to move. How to speak. How to please."
"I don't want to please anyone."
"You say that now." Morrigan's hand landed on Aaliyah's shoulder. The touch was light, almost gentle, but Aaliyah felt her body respond immediately—a warmth spreading from the point of contact, a softening in her muscles that she couldn't control. "But your body has other ideas."
She snapped her fingers.
The sound was sharp, like a twig breaking. And something inside Aaliyah's head shifted.
"Sit up straight," Morrigan said.
Aaliyah's spine straightened. Not because she wanted it to—because it had to. Her body obeyed the command before her mind could reject it. She sat tall in her wheelchair, shoulders back, chin lifted.
"Good. That's how women sit. Men slouch. Men sprawl. Men take up space. You don't have that luxury anymore."
"Stop—"
"Don't speak yet. We'll get to that." Morrigan circled back to face her. "First, let's fix your posture. Your knees. Women keep their knees together. They don't spread. They don't take up space. They make themselves small."
Aaliyah's knees pressed together. She hadn't told them to. They just moved.
"Good. Now your hands. Women keep their hands in their laps. They don't gesture. They don't fidget. They sit still and wait."
Aaliyah's hands folded in her lap. Her fingers laced together.
"You see how easy this is?" Morrigan sat back down and picked up her clipboard. "Your body wants to learn. It's been waiting for someone to teach it. The real you—the thing you used to be—is just noise. Static. Your body knows what it is now."
"I'm not—I'm not a—"
What was the word? What was the word for what she used to be? It was there, somewhere, but every time she reached for it, it dissolved.
"Say it," Morrigan said. "Say the word."
"I'm not a—" Aaliyah's throat tightened. The word was gone. "I don't know."
"That's because I took it. Just now. With the first snap." Morrigan made a note. "You'll never say that word again. You'll never think it. It doesn't exist for you anymore."
A tear slid down Aaliyah's cheek. She didn't wipe it away. Her hands stayed in her lap.
"Second lesson," Morrigan said. She snapped her fingers.
Click.
"The way you speak."
Aaliyah's tongue felt strange. The stud clicked against her teeth, a constant reminder of her mouth's new geography. She tried to form words, but they came out different. Softer. Higher. She tried to say "please" and it came out like a question. She tried to say "stop" and it came out like a sigh.
"What's happening?" she whispered.
"Your speech is being recalibrated. You're learning to speak like a woman. Women don't command. They request. They don't demand. They ask. They don't shout. They whisper."
"I don't want to whisper."
"Then don't." Morrigan shrugged. "But your voice will crack if you try to raise it. And every time you speak forcefully, your throat will ache. Your body won't let you be loud."
Aaliyah tried to scream. The sound came out as a whimper.
"Good. That's what I like to hear." Morrigan made another note. "Third lesson. And this one's the most important."
She stood and walked to Aaliyah's side. Her hand returned to Aaliyah's shoulder—that warm, heavy touch that made Aaliyah's body melt against her will.
"How to please."
"I don't—"
"You do. You've already pleased Briony. You lay in her nest and let her touch your hair and your body responded. You didn't fight. You melted. That's pleasing."
"That wasn't—"
"It was. And you'll do it again. Tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that." Morrigan's hand moved from Aaliyah's shoulder to her hair. She stroked it, slow and deliberate, and Aaliyah's eyes fluttered. "Every client will touch you. Every client will want something from you. And your body will respond. Because I made you that way."
"Please—"
"Please what?" Morrigan's voice was soft. Almost kind. "Please stop? Please don't touch me? You don't know what those words mean anymore. You don't know what you want. You don't know who you are."
She snapped her fingers.
Click.
"What's your name?" Morrigan asked.
"Aaliyah."
"That's right. Aaliyah Whitecloud. A girl. A companion. A cuddle therapist." She smiled. "What was your name before?"
Aaliyah tried to remember. There was something there—a name that wasn't Aaliyah, a life that wasn't this—but it was like trying to remember a dream. The harder she grasped, the faster it fell apart.
"I don't remember."
"Good. That's very good." Morrigan released her hair and stepped back. "Final lesson. And then I'll leave you to rest."
"Final?"
"For now. We'll continue tomorrow." She picked up the clipboard and held it to her chest. "This one is about submission."
Aaliyah's stomach dropped.
"Submission isn't about weakness. It's about knowing your place. You used to be a man who thought he could do whatever he wanted. You humiliated me. You laughed at me. You thought I was beneath you."
"I didn't—"
"You did. And now you're beneath everyone. You're beneath me. You're beneath Briony. You're beneath the janitor who cleans this building. You're a girl. A soft, pretty, trembling girl who needs to be taken care of."
"That's not—"
"That's everything." Morrigan snapped her fingers one more time.Click.
And Aaliyah's world rearranged itself.
She couldn't explain what happened. It wasn't physical. It was deeper than that—a shift in the architecture of her thoughts, the way a house might quietly rearrange its rooms while you slept. She still knew she used to be someone else. She still knew she used to be important. But now she also knew—absolutely, incontrovertibly—that she was smaller than everyone else. She was softer. She was less.
She was a girl. A companion. A thing that existed to be touched.
"Good," Morrigan whispered. "Very good. You're learning."
Aaliyah whimpered. The sound was small. Weak. She hated it.
"Don't fight it. The more you fight, the harder it gets." Morrigan leaned down and pressed a kiss to Aaliyah's forehead. The touch was cold. Possessive. "You're doing so well. Tomorrow, we'll work on your walk. Your hips. The way you move. And then we'll start your second shift."
"Second shift?"
"You'll be assigned a new client. Someone who needs you more than Briony does." Morrigan smiled. "A man, I think. He's very lonely. Very eager. And he'll want things from you that Briony never asked for."
Aaliyah's body clenched. The heat between her legs flared. She didn't want it—she didn't want any of it—but her body was already responding, already preparing itself, already imagining the hands and the warmth and the quiet, terrible intimacy of being touched.
"What did you do to me?"
"I told you. I gave you what you earned." Morrigan walked to the door and unlocked it. Before she left, she looked back. "You made a choice, Aaliyah. You chose cruelty. Now you'll learn what it feels like to be on the other side."
The door closed behind her.
Aaliyah sat in the break room, alone. The fluorescent lights buzzed. The vending machine sighed. And somewhere in the back of her mind, a word she used to know—a word that meant something important, something she couldn't remember—faded into nothing.
By the time the attendant came to wheel her back to her room, she couldn't remember why she'd been crying.
All she knew was that she wanted someone to hold her.
And she hated herself for it.