The Omniscrolls

Being a naturally reserved and shy child, I often found myself being bullied by my classmates, but I always followed my mother’s advice and forgave them each time. Being a religious person, she asked that I never fight back against them because I’d be no better than them. My father, however, disagreed. “You’ll only be a carpet for them in the long run,” he said. “If you let them get away with it, they will never stop.” I hated to admit it, but he was right. Even though I mostly agreed with Mom’s ideals, I found Dad’s words eventually ringing true. As the years passed by, the bullying only got worse, and those responsible were never punished. I wanted to stay true to my beliefs and be the good person Mom wanted me to be, but at what cost? What was the point in being “good”—whatever that even meant anymore—if it only brought me suffering in return? It was not long before I was the only prey left in the class. I tried getting to know my bullies in a desperate attempt to find something we

I had a closet friend named Sophia when I was seven. I met her when we moved to a new house in a different town. She looked no older than I was at the time, and she was playing with a teddy bear inside the closet of my new room. The night I met Sophia, I asked if I could join her. She smiled and said yes, and we played until I fell asleep. I woke up the next day and went downstairs to find my parents panicking and on the phone. When they saw me approaching, they rushed to my side and asked me where I was. I said I was in the closet, but they didn’t believe me. My parents said they checked the closet and every other inch of the house and couldn’t find me. I didn’t know what to say other than the fact that I played with my new friend. I could tell at the time that they didn’t believe me. They said it was alright, and that they were just glad I was safe. Mom urged me to not hide anywhere at night and to only sleep in my bed. I agreed, although I didn’t always listen. I was admitted to a n

I was sitting on a park bench waiting for my next client who was running late when a girl in her early teens approached my bench. She had some scrape marks on her face and hands, and she was also missing a shoe. “What happened? Did someone hurt you?” I asked. “My foster father. He beats me every day; I couldn’t take it anymore.” The girl, who introduced herself as Leila, said that she had complained to the police several times, but they never listened to her because of the status her foster parents held. Her foster mother didn’t care about her either. I felt my stomach twist inside. Having lost my parents to a contract killer, I was in and out of foster homes until I ran away at the age of sixteen and found myself in my current career. Leila asked if I could take her in, but I declined immediately. My work as a contract killer allowed me no room to be a mother. Instead, I saved my number on her phone and asked her to give me a ring if she ever needed my help. I usually had two rules: n

As witches, my mom and I never disclosed our secret to anyone in our town, save for my mom’s best friend, Sara. This was a secret Sara alone kept ever since my mom saved her from a group of bullies when they were on their way home after school. Mom had erased the bullies’ memories, and had also planned on doing the same for Sara, but she had pleaded with Mom to let her memories remain. This one act of kindness, however, brought us misfortune in the long run: Sara accidentally revealed our secret, and it wasn’t long before the entire town was after us. Mom cast a spell to erase the entire town’s memories, and the two of us fled soon after. Mom wasn’t sure if every single person in the town was affected considering the sheer magnitude of the spell, so we stayed out of sight and stuck to the woods for safe passage. If only we had our family heirloom, Mom would have been able to magnify the effects of the spell to ensure complete control over the town. Once we had moved past two more towns