There is something about Monday mornings that makes you want to kill yourself, especially when you're on your period. I had gotten mine when I was using the toilet for the eighth time. At first, I thought I had stomach ache until I pull my shorts down and notice the huge red stain on my white underwear. Though I spent the rest of the night abusing my laundry machine, I feel like my luck is about to change today.

I wake up, brush my teeth, change my tampon, and start my day by listening to some Paul Ngozi on my old stereo. The coffee brews inside the pot while I place two thick chocolate chip waffles inside the toaster.

A yawn escapes from my mouth. I stretch my arms and smooth the creases of my oversized Frank Zappa shirt.

As soon as I hear the waffles pop out of the toaster, I hurry over to the kitchen and grab my plate. In the meantime, Ichabod trots down the stairs. His eyes focused on my waffles until I went to make coffee.

"So," he says. "How did you sleep last night?"

"It's okay, I guess," I answer, taking the small milk jug from the fridge.

I unscrew the blue cap and pour it in a chipped, purple mug with black cats.

"Seriously?" Ichabod chortles, watching me from a safe distance. "I saw you pacing around the laundry room like crazy."

"Yeah," I huff. "But at least I got my shit washed."

Once the coffee is done, I take the pot and pour the fresh brew into the mug. I wanted to put sugar in my drink, but my idiot cat stole all the packets.

Stretching his hind legs, Ichabod shrieks, "Hey, where the fuck's my breakfast?"

Smiling, I yank the bowl from the dishwasher, fill it with cat food, and set it beside the fridge.

"Bon appetite," I say, kissing him on his head.

Ichabod scurries over to his food bowl and munches on his kibble while I pick up a plate of waffles and my coffee and then carry them over to the table.

I stroke the chunk of waffle against the pool of sticky syrup, stab it with my fork, and eat it in three quick bites. My dark hair bounces on my shoulders. The music transitions from Paul Ngozi to Fela Kuti.

"So, how is Audrey doing?" Ichabod asks. "It's been a while since I've seen your niece."

"She's doing fine," I tell him. "She's even got the mixtape I made for her. It has songs from Rage Against the Machine, Living Color, Bad Brains, New York Dolls, and Fishbone. Audrey loved it so much she asked me to send her more of them."

"When was the last time you saw her?" he suggests, running his tongue around his crumb-smeared mouth.

I shrug as I place the purple mug on the table.

"I visited Audrey on her eighth birthday." I tell him. "I gave her presents, sang Happy Birthday, hung out with Audrey for an hour, then left before Andie tried to con me with her 'sweet big sister' act."

Waddling towards my right foot, Ichabod leaps on my lap and oddly looks up at me. I throw back my coffee like a shot of vodka and then place my sticky fork in the center of the plate.

"I think you should go to Hiraeth Country and pay Audrey a visit," Ichabod says encouragingly.

Hiraeth County is this weird town in Louisiana. Most people come here for the Southern folklore and food, others are more interested in seeing wealthy black sorcerers thrive in their natural habitat than care for the poor.

You see, my mom is born to one of the powerful witches in Baton Rouge while my dad comes from a long line of wealthy witch doctors. Since my siblings and I are the members of the family, my mom expected us to live up these high expectations like losing weight for school dances, practicing curses until our hands bleed, or finding a coven after college.

After I left Louisiana...