Bewitched



Billowing from parched lips, an icy breath fogs my shadowed figure. Grasping the glass piece with white-knuckled hands, its single serrated edge slices my flesh. A scarlet drop should have seeped from the wound-- if only I bled. I watch the shard’s murky surface, only a section remains untouched by Time’s disregard. My past appearance now only exists in a distant memory. Hair that resembles coiled wire stares back at me, while wrinkles lurk in the crevices of my flakey skin. A pair of hollowed eyes gape into my soul. This is what destruction resembles, the hideousness of me. Those who have done this, they will pay.

I lived in a colonial-style house. Images of its wraparound porch and vivid flower beds fill my mind with dread. It is no use to live in my past, to recall children’s shrill giggles or even the simplicity of belonging. That day arrived too soon. I remember stepping outside. A bitter wind pricked my pale skin, as swollen snowflakes perched on fluttering eyelashes. I still hear the subtle clack of my leather boots as I approach the courthouse, awaiting my decided fate.

The courtroom door creaks open, dangling on a rusty hinge. Lingering at the door is an obese man with mottled red cheeks. A throng of others donning curly gray wigs gather around a rectangular table beside him. A putrid odor invades my nostrils as perspiration swells from their pasty faces. Their conversations cease as they meet my gaze, cringing at the thought of what I could be. Sunlight grazes an empty chair. That one is for me. Striding towards them, I ease my body into the wooden seat. I rest my hands on the arms but they slide down as my hands grow slick with sweat. But I am no witch. They do not even exist. I do not deserve this, to be hung before my child. I cannot bear to imagine his expression…
“Elizabeth Goode?” My name exits his fat lips. A hint of weariness is clouded by the intolerance of the man’s voice.
“Yes,” I swallow the saliva caked on my tongue, “that is correct.”
“You have been accused of practicing the art of witchcraft. We order you not to use your evil spells on us now, for it is our honorable duty to protect our town. Of course, we will allow a fair, unbiased trial for you to plead your,” he pauses for an instant, “innocence.” This will not be an unbiased trial for I am required to lose. I listen as the candles lick the air and their wax slithers to the floor. The room, with its cavernous stone walls, tastes like death. I am going to die.

I was hanged on September 29, 1612. The leaves had just turned beautiful shades of crimson and gold. They quivered about my head as I stood on a wooden platform twenty feet above the earth. The rickety structure groaned under the weight of its soon to be victims and their executioner. Five others awaited their own deaths beside me, each of us contemplating our misfortune. I tensed as a splintering rope was tightened until it gnawed at my neck’s exposed flesh. Thomas, my son, stood on the frosted soil beneath me, his emerald eyes staring into my own. I felt bare inside, not even nervous. I found it hard to be anxious when I knew what the future held. A slippery tear oozed from my eyelid. I wiped it away, shielding Thomas from my grief. I am not ready to die. I have so much left to give my child, my husband, the world. A bell rang, its bright sound shattering the silence that cloaked the group. I plummeted towards my inevitable death, a final plume of smoke escaping my lips. These people will pay, I swear it.

It was as if my body remained wilted on the gallows, while my soul lived on; reborn in a sense. It’s excruciating to recall my transformation; the change from human to witch. Death’s cold touch held no comfort as it ushered me away to the icy unknown. A tingling numbness brought me back to consciousness. Waking in a meadow I realized I was not dead, yet. The pain arrived in small doses until it became too much to bare. I recall screaming. Convulsing as my insides recoiled themselves and hardened to stone. With every exhale, dust escaped the cavity of my aching lungs. Periwinkle flecks sprouted around me, but no beauty could disguise the suffering I experienced. Every day came to an end while my misery did not. I stared up at the stars, each one sublime. Salty orbs glossed my cheeks. It was impossible to distinguish if I was crying from the torture or the loveliness of the night sky; probably the anguish. If only I was given a more alluring form.

Existing as a being that is neither dead nor alive, I am aware of my appearance. I am reminded every time I stop for water at a placid stream or come across a shattered bottle. I gaze into the glass’s murky surface, encrusted with years of mud. My past appearance now only exists in a distant memory. Hair that resembles coiled wire stares back at me, while wrinkles lurk in the crevices of my flakey skin. A pair of hollowed eyes gape into my soul. I am a witch. Envy seethes inside my soul. In seconds, the glass vaporizes. Shimmering crystals float gracefully to the ground, an illusion of beauty. It is said that; “if you apply enough pressure to coal it will become a diamond.” If you crushed me, I doubt you would find a diamond.

I despise humans; the way they stroll down streets accomplishing nothing. They have the ability to live without resentment and fear of discrimination. I was one. As a witch, I have traveled worldwide; England, Italy, Germany, France, anywhere there have been suspected witch occurrences. “Witch trials;” the two words used to describe these travesties. I am honored to announce that I am responsible. Humans are so gullible. I simply bewitch a few and the rest takes care of itself. I am the one who plants the seed and departs before the crop of chaos grows. My demonic cackle rouses the woods as I trudge along the forest floor. They have banished me here. I remind myself that they deserve this. Just remember; you swore it.


I boarded a ship bound for the Americas a year ago, hoping to spread the superstition. I find myself now exploring the vacant streets. It’s much too early for the colonists to be out of bed. The sun climbs over the horizon, sending vivacious colors of rose and scarlet spiraling in every direction. A crow’s ebony figure is silhouetted against the canvas of the morning sky. SLAM! A barn door scrapes shut on a squeaky hinge. I confront the ruckus. That was a mistake. A middle aged man gawks at me, terror glazing the whites of his eyes. “Witch! Witch! Come quick! Witch!” His raspy voice attempts to call for help. I snap my fingers; such a shame. He plunges downward limply; dead. It’s too bad; I don’t like to kill humans. I’d much rather they accomplish the task themselves. But he had it coming. Soft candlelight dusts the grimy streets; people have awoken. A bleached, wooden sign bathes in the rays: Welcome to Salem!