The Real LJ Idol - Mini-Season - Week 18
The Real LJ Idol - Mini-Season - Week 18
This is my entry for Week 18 of LJ Idol (
therealljidol).
Prompt: “We must bear witness so that it scars us."
Dear Diary,
Today Mother scolded me. I don't understand why she is so uptight about things! She knows I'm just coming into my powers and I can't always control them. I couldn't reach the top shelf of the bookcase, and while I was grabbing for a book, it just kind of shot into my hand, like it was pulled by an invisible piece of thread. I didn't will it to do so, but it did so anyway and of course Mother saw. She's always watching, always waiting for me to make a mistake. I wasn't near an open door or window so no one could have seen, lest they were spying on us which seems like a much greater crime than having a book move a hair or two on it's own. She sent me to my room without supper and told me to think about what I'd done, but I haven't done anything and so I refuse to think! Mother certainly seems rather crazed these days, at least when she's not doting on Anne and busying herself with the wedding preparations. I think it will be strange to see my sister married off, not because she isn't of age or beautiful or lovely, but because her choice of suitor is rather odd. George is nice enough, I suppose, but he's not particularly kind or good-looking or charming. He is, however, the son of Magistrate Williams, something that seems to be of much more importance. He is very wealthy and is family is very revered, but those things never seemed to matter much to Anne and, if you ask me, these days she seems more like a thief going off to the gallows than a young woman about to be wed. Anne used to smile and dance and make me crowns of flowers from the meadow, but now she rarely smiles and she never dances and she definitely doesn't pick flowers. She wants to wait for Pa to return so he can give her away to her husband properly, but Mother seems impatient. I do wonder why she's so eager and if it has anything to do with her constantly reprimanding me for the smallest of things. Perhaps she's tired of being a mother and once Anne is wed and moved into George's home, she'll send me to live with them. I think I would hate that.
Dear Diary,
I am afraid. I am afraid and I understand things more clearly now than I ever would have wished to. It seems that I've been pulled unceremoniously into adulthood far too early, but Mother says that is the way for a young witch. I remember, as a child, loathing the way Mother kept me cooped up inside while the other children my age roamed the town freely, running and laughing and picking flowers in the meadow. She was always screeching at me and scolding me and hiding me away and it all seemed so unfair, but today I learned that she simply loved me more than she could bear. It began as a grey, solemn day; Mother was quiet this morning and she seemed to have a difficult time looking directly at me. She prepared me a dish of bread and cheese, but did not eat anything for breakfast herself. She appeared nervous and unsettled, but she did not rush me, nor did she speak, which is something she tends to do a lot of when she's uneasy.
I could talk about the way the mud squished beneath my boots as Mother pulled me along to the square, the way she gripped my hand more tightly in hers than necessary. I could talk about the way the town felt eerie and empty, the way the wind whipped my skirt around my ankles and stung the tips of my ears. I could talk of many things I felt and heard, but they would all pale in comparison to the things that I saw:
Three women were hung today.
Two of the women were old; older than Mother and older still. Their small, frail bodies were incapable of protest and their lined, weathered faces were strangely calm as they stood on the platform, listening to all the horrible charges brought against them. The third was a woman who frighteningly reminded me very much of Anne. She was youthful with bright red hair and pale skin and she cried and howled fiercely, clawing at the rope around her neck as the crowd jeered and spat at her. She begged and pleaded until her throat became raw and hoarse and after awhile I could no longer hear her over the crowd's taunting and the moaning wind. I didn't want to watch. I tried to hide my face, to bury myself in Mother's side, but she pushed me forward and held me still. "Mary," she whispered. "It pains me to have you see this more than you can know, but we must. We must watch. My Love, we can not shy away from the truth before us. We must bear witness so that it scars us. I know you're afraid, but you are strong. You must never forget that we are unwelcome in this world. Our fear will be our survival."
And so, I watched.
As their delicate bodies went slack, one by one, swinging back and forth in the breeze, suspended by the noose, I felt a sorrow so deep and profound that my stomach felt as though it was swallowing itself up. I could feel the air around me begin to hum and crackle, my skin buzzing like I was covered in a blanket of bees. Mother hugged me tightly, but it was not a gesture of affection. She was trying to quell the energy that was radiating from my body and suddenly I understood.
These women were accused of witchcraft.
I suppose deep down I've always known the precariousness of our situation. I've always been taught that my powers are something to be hidden and rejected, if it all possible. The wonder of them was stomped out by Mother as soon as they appeared and while that always felt unfair, it also felt necessary. I didn't see the harm in a few uncontrollable outbursts of magic - moving a spoon here, adjusting a rug there - but Mother always did and it manifested in lashings or being sent to bed without supper and so I did my best to subdue them. Now, I know true fear. I know that Mother has been protecting me rather than punishing me. I am truly scarred by what I have seen and I will not forget.
Dear Diary,
I have the most wonderful news! Pa has finally returned home! He arrived by wagon cart and while he is much thinner than I remember, his hugs are still familiar and warm. He walks with a limp now and his hands are a bit clumsy, but Mother says to give him time. He was sorry to have missed Anne's wedding, to not have been able to give her away properly, but he says he is proud of us for moving forward as a family in his absence. He asked if I've had any gentleman callers and I assured him I have not. I did not tell him about the afternoons I've been spending down by the river with the Reverend's boy, John. I did not tell him how John reads me poetry and picks me flowers and stares at me in a way that makes me feel warm and alive. Only Anne knows and I've sworn her to secrecy.
Mother still hovers, but she's become more relaxed as I've gotten older. She lets me leave the house more often and the freedom is intoxicating. I love to walk around town, watching people go about their business, wondering what their lives are like and how they differ from mine. Sometimes, I go out and lay in the meadow and stare up at the sky, watching the clouds float by above my head for hours. Mostly, however, I sneak off into the woods, to a place where the trees are twisted and grown close together. There, I practice my craft.
I know I shouldn't. I know if Mother found out, she'd chain me to my bed posts and forbid me from ever seeing the light of day again. I am still scarred and I still remember the things I saw that day. I have not forgotten and I do not live without fear. But, sometimes it feels as though I will explode from the pressures of my powers. Some days, it courses through my veins with such a crawling intensity that it makes me want to claw at my skin. Mother refuses to teach me herself. She refuses to even discuss it. I know what is at risk and I know the immense dangers, but I've spent so long actively rejecting such a huge part of myself that I often feel like I don't even know who I am at all. I have lived a life of hiding and supression and it's as though it has done nothing but build my powers to be stronger. I am much better at controlling them now, but I fear that one day I will not be able to contain them. And so, I go out to the woods and I make that which is dead live again. I make flowers bloom in the winter and broken birds soar back into the skies. I wonder if all witches can do this or if I am a healer of sorts. Can Anne make rotten things grow as well? Can she repair things beyond repair? I think I may ask her.
Dear Diary,
Things in the town have gotten bad. Just this week alone, two more women were hanged. Mother has tightened her grip again and I am rarely allowed to leave the house. She and Pa argue when they think I'm asleep. She begs him to take us away from this town and he quietly tells her that it's impossible. There's no where to go. I haven't been to the woods in weeks and I can feel my powers vibrating beneath my skin. My fingertips ache and spark and tingle. I am afraid. Mother says these women are not witches, but I don't know if that makes me feel better or worse. The townspeople don't seem to care if they are right or wrong and it's frightening to watch their fear take down innocents so swiftly. We do our best to keep to ourselves, but Pa says it's important to strike a balance. Hiding away in our home too much is suspicious on it's own. And so we attend the hangings as a family, mixing ourselves in with the cruel and barbaric crowd, seemingly unaffected by the sickening snapping sound of necks.
It pains me to hear the general chatter of the town - blood rituals, consorting with Satan, scorned lovers eating hearts and killing small animals in sacrifice, cursing harvests and bringing down plagues. Witches don't do any of these things. We aren't even capable. The absurdity of these claims is only exacerbated by the fear mongering and the stories and accusations get more and more ridiculous and far-fetched by the day. And people are dying, but no one seems to care.
There is one bright spot in an otherwise dismal situation - Anne is with child. Though even that joyous news comes with a dark cloud. Anne fears her child will be a witch like us and it doesn't help that George and his father have been integral parts of hanging the recently accused. She smiles less now than ever before. With every day that passes, she is seeming less and less like the sister I've loved. I wonder if I am changing as well. I wonder when the angry mob will find itself on our doorstep.
Dear Diary,
John has been writing me letters! He hides them behind a crate under the kitchen window. He writes me poetry about the afternoons we used to spend by the river and the color of my hair and the way the sun shined brighter when we were together. He tells me of his dreams and his hopes. He tells me he loves me.
I haven't been able to meet him by the river for many weeks now. No one moves about the town much anymore. It seems that just being seen out in public these days is enough to find a cold, accusing finger cast your way. I wonder if people are more afraid of being called a witch than they are of actual witches now.
Anne looks as though she'll pop at any moment and Mother says the baby must be big and strong. But Anne's eyes are sallow and her once joyful glow has dimmed. She doesn't sleep or eat as much as she should and she cries often. I know she's worried that the baby will be a witch and that somehow George will know. Pa tries to comfort her. He tells her that neither she nor I showed any signs of powers until we were at least 5. He tells her to enjoy these moments and to not let the fear ruin this gift. Pa doesn't know that the fear has scarred us.
Dear Diary,
I have entered a nightmare from which I can not wake up. Something awful has happened. Anne had her baby - a healthy, adorable, green-eyed boy. But the stress and the worry and the labor was too much for her. She gave her life for another; for a son. I wish I could stop there. I wish I could properly grieve for my darling sister, my beautiful sibling who made this cursed life so much more bearable for me, but i cannot. She wasn't herself in the end. This town and these people and their wretched lies sucked the life out of her long before my sweet, innocent nephew. And they have not stopped. God, they have not stopped and they now turn their vile, accusatory eye at Mother. While in the throws of labor, Anne lost herself. Her powers consumed her and she was too weak to fight them. The midwife ran from the room screaming, claiming Anne had lifted up off of the bed like a demon, like a possessed puppet on invisible strings. Mother and I were left to tend to her, but it was far too late. The guilt drowns me like an endless ocean of sorrows, but even in such a state I can not mourn what is lost because there is still so much more that I have yet to lose. Anne's husband George is beside himself and he blames Mother. He refuses to believe that his beloved Anne was a witch and surmises instead that Mother had cursed her somehow. Jealousy over having a son when she herself only had girls, he says. It's mad! It's preposterous! But these people see no logic, no reason. Hate has filled their hearts and I dare say it is beginning to fill mine.
John has stopped writing letters. It seems like such a small thing to mention, but I mention it nonetheless.
Dear Diary,
I watched Mother hang today. The crowd was small as the frequency of hangings has thinned the population. The jeers and shouts were not nearly as enthusiastic as they once were. I stood beside Pa who had instructed me to show no emotion. The Magistrate was to believe that we had already cast her out of our hearts. Being a witch was, of course, the ultimate betrayal. I hugged my nephew in my arms and I watched. Mother said we must bear witness so that it scars us. I am scarred. But, I am also tired of witnessing. This grotesque land is littered with the corpses of innocents and I have seen the true abandonment of God. We will wipe ourselves off this earth in the name of fear and I refuse to meet my end in this fashion. Mother sacrificed so much for Anne and I. Her life became consumed with protecting our secret, until she could no longer protect herself. The coldness in my heart is tempered only by the love I've had for my family, a love that still flickers just barely beneath the darkness. This town seems destined to find a witch to truly fear.
The Reverend says John has gone missing. Pity, that is.
Dear Diary,
I've been waiting and biding my time, but I've seen the path laid out before me for some time now. It would appear it has finally reached it's end. I am accused of consorting with Mother, practicing witchcraft and honoring Satan as my savior. The Reverend has named me the cause of his son's disappearance. Today, Hell has arrived on my doorstep and in just a few moments they will come to take me to the gallows where I will be readied for hanging.
I recall a time so many years ago, when Mother took me by the hand and led me to the square. Three women were to be hanged that day and while one was making a scene of herself, the other two women were calm. They were older, but even so there was a wisdom in their eyes that measured well beyond their years. Their lined, weathered faces were resigned. I had been distracted then - by the cheering crowd, the horrific scene, the wails of the third hysterical woman, but I somehow remember them clearly now. And, I understand.
I am a witch and today, what is left of this treacherous town will have won. They will have cast out a true evil, but I am not an evil that was born. I am an evil that was created.
But I am also a healer. I can fix things that are broken. I can mend that which is beaten down. They can hang me and spit on me and say awful, terrible things about my family, but my magic will only grow and manifest with their hatred. The harder they fight to crush me, the more brilliant I will rise again. They will know and see real power and they will learn what it is like to truly fear that which they do not understand. I will be gone, but only just for now.
I am a witch and I will walk this world again.
This is my entry for Week 18 of LJ Idol (
therealljidol).
Prompt: “We must bear witness so that it scars us."
Dear Diary,
Today Mother scolded me. I don't understand why she is so uptight about things! She knows I'm just coming into my powers and I can't always control them. I couldn't reach the top shelf of the bookcase, and while I was grabbing for a book, it just kind of shot into my hand, like it was pulled by an invisible piece of thread. I didn't will it to do so, but it did so anyway and of course Mother saw. She's always watching, always waiting for me to make a mistake. I wasn't near an open door or window so no one could have seen, lest they were spying on us which seems like a much greater crime than having a book move a hair or two on it's own. She sent me to my room without supper and told me to think about what I'd done, but I haven't done anything and so I refuse to think! Mother certainly seems rather crazed these days, at least when she's not doting on Anne and busying herself with the wedding preparations. I think it will be strange to see my sister married off, not because she isn't of age or beautiful or lovely, but because her choice of suitor is rather odd. George is nice enough, I suppose, but he's not particularly kind or good-looking or charming. He is, however, the son of Magistrate Williams, something that seems to be of much more importance. He is very wealthy and is family is very revered, but those things never seemed to matter much to Anne and, if you ask me, these days she seems more like a thief going off to the gallows than a young woman about to be wed. Anne used to smile and dance and make me crowns of flowers from the meadow, but now she rarely smiles and she never dances and she definitely doesn't pick flowers. She wants to wait for Pa to return so he can give her away to her husband properly, but Mother seems impatient. I do wonder why she's so eager and if it has anything to do with her constantly reprimanding me for the smallest of things. Perhaps she's tired of being a mother and once Anne is wed and moved into George's home, she'll send me to live with them. I think I would hate that.
Dear Diary,
I am afraid. I am afraid and I understand things more clearly now than I ever would have wished to. It seems that I've been pulled unceremoniously into adulthood far too early, but Mother says that is the way for a young witch. I remember, as a child, loathing the way Mother kept me cooped up inside while the other children my age roamed the town freely, running and laughing and picking flowers in the meadow. She was always screeching at me and scolding me and hiding me away and it all seemed so unfair, but today I learned that she simply loved me more than she could bear. It began as a grey, solemn day; Mother was quiet this morning and she seemed to have a difficult time looking directly at me. She prepared me a dish of bread and cheese, but did not eat anything for breakfast herself. She appeared nervous and unsettled, but she did not rush me, nor did she speak, which is something she tends to do a lot of when she's uneasy.
I could talk about the way the mud squished beneath my boots as Mother pulled me along to the square, the way she gripped my hand more tightly in hers than necessary. I could talk about the way the town felt eerie and empty, the way the wind whipped my skirt around my ankles and stung the tips of my ears. I could talk of many things I felt and heard, but they would all pale in comparison to the things that I saw:
Three women were hung today.
Two of the women were old; older than Mother and older still. Their small, frail bodies were incapable of protest and their lined, weathered faces were strangely calm as they stood on the platform, listening to all the horrible charges brought against them. The third was a woman who frighteningly reminded me very much of Anne. She was youthful with bright red hair and pale skin and she cried and howled fiercely, clawing at the rope around her neck as the crowd jeered and spat at her. She begged and pleaded until her throat became raw and hoarse and after awhile I could no longer hear her over the crowd's taunting and the moaning wind. I didn't want to watch. I tried to hide my face, to bury myself in Mother's side, but she pushed me forward and held me still. "Mary," she whispered. "It pains me to have you see this more than you can know, but we must. We must watch. My Love, we can not shy away from the truth before us. We must bear witness so that it scars us. I know you're afraid, but you are strong. You must never forget that we are unwelcome in this world. Our fear will be our survival."
And so, I watched.
As their delicate bodies went slack, one by one, swinging back and forth in the breeze, suspended by the noose, I felt a sorrow so deep and profound that my stomach felt as though it was swallowing itself up. I could feel the air around me begin to hum and crackle, my skin buzzing like I was covered in a blanket of bees. Mother hugged me tightly, but it was not a gesture of affection. She was trying to quell the energy that was radiating from my body and suddenly I understood.
These women were accused of witchcraft.
I suppose deep down I've always known the precariousness of our situation. I've always been taught that my powers are something to be hidden and rejected, if it all possible. The wonder of them was stomped out by Mother as soon as they appeared and while that always felt unfair, it also felt necessary. I didn't see the harm in a few uncontrollable outbursts of magic - moving a spoon here, adjusting a rug there - but Mother always did and it manifested in lashings or being sent to bed without supper and so I did my best to subdue them. Now, I know true fear. I know that Mother has been protecting me rather than punishing me. I am truly scarred by what I have seen and I will not forget.
Dear Diary,
I have the most wonderful news! Pa has finally returned home! He arrived by wagon cart and while he is much thinner than I remember, his hugs are still familiar and warm. He walks with a limp now and his hands are a bit clumsy, but Mother says to give him time. He was sorry to have missed Anne's wedding, to not have been able to give her away properly, but he says he is proud of us for moving forward as a family in his absence. He asked if I've had any gentleman callers and I assured him I have not. I did not tell him about the afternoons I've been spending down by the river with the Reverend's boy, John. I did not tell him how John reads me poetry and picks me flowers and stares at me in a way that makes me feel warm and alive. Only Anne knows and I've sworn her to secrecy.
Mother still hovers, but she's become more relaxed as I've gotten older. She lets me leave the house more often and the freedom is intoxicating. I love to walk around town, watching people go about their business, wondering what their lives are like and how they differ from mine. Sometimes, I go out and lay in the meadow and stare up at the sky, watching the clouds float by above my head for hours. Mostly, however, I sneak off into the woods, to a place where the trees are twisted and grown close together. There, I practice my craft.
I know I shouldn't. I know if Mother found out, she'd chain me to my bed posts and forbid me from ever seeing the light of day again. I am still scarred and I still remember the things I saw that day. I have not forgotten and I do not live without fear. But, sometimes it feels as though I will explode from the pressures of my powers. Some days, it courses through my veins with such a crawling intensity that it makes me want to claw at my skin. Mother refuses to teach me herself. She refuses to even discuss it. I know what is at risk and I know the immense dangers, but I've spent so long actively rejecting such a huge part of myself that I often feel like I don't even know who I am at all. I have lived a life of hiding and supression and it's as though it has done nothing but build my powers to be stronger. I am much better at controlling them now, but I fear that one day I will not be able to contain them. And so, I go out to the woods and I make that which is dead live again. I make flowers bloom in the winter and broken birds soar back into the skies. I wonder if all witches can do this or if I am a healer of sorts. Can Anne make rotten things grow as well? Can she repair things beyond repair? I think I may ask her.
Dear Diary,
Things in the town have gotten bad. Just this week alone, two more women were hanged. Mother has tightened her grip again and I am rarely allowed to leave the house. She and Pa argue when they think I'm asleep. She begs him to take us away from this town and he quietly tells her that it's impossible. There's no where to go. I haven't been to the woods in weeks and I can feel my powers vibrating beneath my skin. My fingertips ache and spark and tingle. I am afraid. Mother says these women are not witches, but I don't know if that makes me feel better or worse. The townspeople don't seem to care if they are right or wrong and it's frightening to watch their fear take down innocents so swiftly. We do our best to keep to ourselves, but Pa says it's important to strike a balance. Hiding away in our home too much is suspicious on it's own. And so we attend the hangings as a family, mixing ourselves in with the cruel and barbaric crowd, seemingly unaffected by the sickening snapping sound of necks.
It pains me to hear the general chatter of the town - blood rituals, consorting with Satan, scorned lovers eating hearts and killing small animals in sacrifice, cursing harvests and bringing down plagues. Witches don't do any of these things. We aren't even capable. The absurdity of these claims is only exacerbated by the fear mongering and the stories and accusations get more and more ridiculous and far-fetched by the day. And people are dying, but no one seems to care.
There is one bright spot in an otherwise dismal situation - Anne is with child. Though even that joyous news comes with a dark cloud. Anne fears her child will be a witch like us and it doesn't help that George and his father have been integral parts of hanging the recently accused. She smiles less now than ever before. With every day that passes, she is seeming less and less like the sister I've loved. I wonder if I am changing as well. I wonder when the angry mob will find itself on our doorstep.
Dear Diary,
John has been writing me letters! He hides them behind a crate under the kitchen window. He writes me poetry about the afternoons we used to spend by the river and the color of my hair and the way the sun shined brighter when we were together. He tells me of his dreams and his hopes. He tells me he loves me.
I haven't been able to meet him by the river for many weeks now. No one moves about the town much anymore. It seems that just being seen out in public these days is enough to find a cold, accusing finger cast your way. I wonder if people are more afraid of being called a witch than they are of actual witches now.
Anne looks as though she'll pop at any moment and Mother says the baby must be big and strong. But Anne's eyes are sallow and her once joyful glow has dimmed. She doesn't sleep or eat as much as she should and she cries often. I know she's worried that the baby will be a witch and that somehow George will know. Pa tries to comfort her. He tells her that neither she nor I showed any signs of powers until we were at least 5. He tells her to enjoy these moments and to not let the fear ruin this gift. Pa doesn't know that the fear has scarred us.
Dear Diary,
I have entered a nightmare from which I can not wake up. Something awful has happened. Anne had her baby - a healthy, adorable, green-eyed boy. But the stress and the worry and the labor was too much for her. She gave her life for another; for a son. I wish I could stop there. I wish I could properly grieve for my darling sister, my beautiful sibling who made this cursed life so much more bearable for me, but i cannot. She wasn't herself in the end. This town and these people and their wretched lies sucked the life out of her long before my sweet, innocent nephew. And they have not stopped. God, they have not stopped and they now turn their vile, accusatory eye at Mother. While in the throws of labor, Anne lost herself. Her powers consumed her and she was too weak to fight them. The midwife ran from the room screaming, claiming Anne had lifted up off of the bed like a demon, like a possessed puppet on invisible strings. Mother and I were left to tend to her, but it was far too late. The guilt drowns me like an endless ocean of sorrows, but even in such a state I can not mourn what is lost because there is still so much more that I have yet to lose. Anne's husband George is beside himself and he blames Mother. He refuses to believe that his beloved Anne was a witch and surmises instead that Mother had cursed her somehow. Jealousy over having a son when she herself only had girls, he says. It's mad! It's preposterous! But these people see no logic, no reason. Hate has filled their hearts and I dare say it is beginning to fill mine.
John has stopped writing letters. It seems like such a small thing to mention, but I mention it nonetheless.
Dear Diary,
I watched Mother hang today. The crowd was small as the frequency of hangings has thinned the population. The jeers and shouts were not nearly as enthusiastic as they once were. I stood beside Pa who had instructed me to show no emotion. The Magistrate was to believe that we had already cast her out of our hearts. Being a witch was, of course, the ultimate betrayal. I hugged my nephew in my arms and I watched. Mother said we must bear witness so that it scars us. I am scarred. But, I am also tired of witnessing. This grotesque land is littered with the corpses of innocents and I have seen the true abandonment of God. We will wipe ourselves off this earth in the name of fear and I refuse to meet my end in this fashion. Mother sacrificed so much for Anne and I. Her life became consumed with protecting our secret, until she could no longer protect herself. The coldness in my heart is tempered only by the love I've had for my family, a love that still flickers just barely beneath the darkness. This town seems destined to find a witch to truly fear.
The Reverend says John has gone missing. Pity, that is.
Dear Diary,
I've been waiting and biding my time, but I've seen the path laid out before me for some time now. It would appear it has finally reached it's end. I am accused of consorting with Mother, practicing witchcraft and honoring Satan as my savior. The Reverend has named me the cause of his son's disappearance. Today, Hell has arrived on my doorstep and in just a few moments they will come to take me to the gallows where I will be readied for hanging.
I recall a time so many years ago, when Mother took me by the hand and led me to the square. Three women were to be hanged that day and while one was making a scene of herself, the other two women were calm. They were older, but even so there was a wisdom in their eyes that measured well beyond their years. Their lined, weathered faces were resigned. I had been distracted then - by the cheering crowd, the horrific scene, the wails of the third hysterical woman, but I somehow remember them clearly now. And, I understand.
I am a witch and today, what is left of this treacherous town will have won. They will have cast out a true evil, but I am not an evil that was born. I am an evil that was created.
But I am also a healer. I can fix things that are broken. I can mend that which is beaten down. They can hang me and spit on me and say awful, terrible things about my family, but my magic will only grow and manifest with their hatred. The harder they fight to crush me, the more brilliant I will rise again. They will know and see real power and they will learn what it is like to truly fear that which they do not understand. I will be gone, but only just for now.
I am a witch and I will walk this world again.