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AS SOON AS I WAS OLD enough to learn how to work the oven without burning down the entire town, mum has always left me in charge of fixing breakfast, brunch, and supper. Her reasoning: she gave birth to me. Simple and clean as that. It’s her excuse for getting out of all the housework like washing the dishes, cleaning the washroom, or doing the laundry. Speaking of... the house is a disaster.
Dirty dishes are piled near the wash bucket, swarmed by a group of flies, absorbing remnants of days old—possibly months old—food. Mum’s unmentionables are strewn across the living room floor, mixed in with Igbob’s soiled undergarments. The smell in our cottage is enough to incapacitate a dinosaur; it’s a mix of rotten deli meat, mum’s odorous perfume that she swears by, and stool from the clogged loo.
Mum wrinkles her nose at me, and with a smirk, says, “I cannot bear to eat in an unkempt home.” She places a hand on her bosom, feigns a look of disgust, and seats herself on the sofa near the hearth. “Be a dear and get to your daughterly duties. Now!”
Warming my hands by the fire, I cast her a puzzled look. “Mum, I’m really exhausted from work. I’ll make dinner, but, as you said on the way home, I’ve got to be out by sunrise.”
“Don’t get mouthy with me.” She balls her fist threateningly, emerald eyes alight in the flames. “If Igbob comes home to this, he’ll blow his lid.”
I can only blink at her. She and Igbob have been living in squalor for far too long for the bloke to even consider becoming angry. “That sounds like a personal issue.” I turn my back to her and enter the kitchen.
“With a thorny attitude like that,” mum harrumphs, “you’ll always be alone.”
Better alone than with someone for their wealth. Or lack of. If I were brave enough to say just that to her, I would. I just don’t feel like arguing or being on the receiving end of her iron fist. Tomorrow, I won’t have to worry about her. Ever again.
I bite my bottom lip. Tomorrow... my last day. I pray to the Goddess that Vahilda was wrong. Is wrong.
Gulping what may be my last gulp, I search through the food rack for the ingredients I need to whip up something quick. There’s nothing but a fly-covered leg of lamb and something so devoured by mold, my skin prickles just by the look of it. The spice rack is bare, and the icebox houses frozen fruits and vegetables. Mum and Igbob sure know how to stave away the ill effects of starvation because there’s nothing to eat.
I ready to tell my mum about the kitchen’s dire conditions when I hear the loud gurgling of a woman who’s fallen into a deep slumber. Her head is slumped over to one side, legs crossed and resting atop the coffee table littered with sugar cubes and dried coffee.
I like it best when she sleeps; my world is much more peaceful until sunrise when she shakes me from my snooze to request hot porridge. Tomorrow, though, her request will be denied because I’ll be long gone. I don’t know how far I’ll escape before Vahilda’s prophecy comes to fruition. But I’m a witch. That means I can thwart off any possible murderer who dares to steal my life away, right? All I need are flowers, and I’m all set. Yet, I’m an amateur witch who doesn’t know what flowers will provide the best defense. If I had a cherry flower like Vahilda, I’d freeze time and escape whoever or whatever comes my way. If I possessed a hydrangea, I could surprise my would-be attacker with ice-cold water. And that’s where the extent of my knowledge ends.
With a silent prayer on my lips, I send my request to the Goddess for protection and an early start to the morning as I flop into my bed. Darkness comes quick, yanking me into a dreamless sleep that might be my last.
It only feels like seconds have passed when golden rays of sun warm my face through the grime-covered glass window. My eyes flutter open, welcoming in the harsh light that blurs my vision. Rubbing my eyes, I leap out of bed in one go and rush into the living room toward the front door, only to have Igbob stop me dead in my tracks.
He smells as if he’s bathed in booze and looks like he’s about to explode with anger. His pale face, red and splotchy, thin lips curved into a solid frown. “You little bitch.” He jabs a finger into my shoulder.
I stumble back, bewildered and shocked. All evidence of sleep is knocked right out of me by his disgusting words. I blink at him, then at my mum, glaring at me from across the room. Igbob turns my face to him with his sweaty hands.
“Look at me when I speak to you,” Igbob snarls and inches closer to me.
“What the hell has gotten into you?” Is all I can say before he shoves me to the floor. The air rushes from me, pain exploding down my backside. “Mum!” I scream for her, but she stands with her arms crossed and shakes her head at me. Then it dawns on me that Igbob is furious about the state of the cottage. It’s not my duty to clean up after two able-bodied adults, but here I am being punished for it.
I ready to apologize for the mess that is not my doing until mum lifts her hand and reveals the real cause of Igbob’s anger. A potato sack, near bursting with gold coins, is held within her clutch. She found my hidden stash—my escape plan. Her beautiful face goes blank, emotionless, and then blooms with red-hot fury a millisecond after.
“Why am I cursed with a daughter like you?” Her eyes bore into me, void of love and care. “You hid gold from me! From your own flesh and blood. How dare you!”
Igbob hawks a loogie, spitting on me as if I’m the scum of the earth.
I wipe my face with the back of my sleeve and kick Igbob’s legs with such force that he trips backward and catches himself before falling. That asshead is a disgusting excuse for a human being. Even worse, my mum is allowing this to happen, for Igbob to treat me in such an awful way. I try to crawl to my feet and scurry to safety, but Igbob grabs a fistful of my hair and slams me against a wall. He slams me for a second and third time, drawing blood from my nose and a scream of help from my bloodied mouth.
Is this how I die? By the hands of my mum’s fiancé? How can she just let this happen? How can she not love me enough to protect me? She wouldn’t even let me explain myself, allow me to defend my reasoning as to why I hid the gold from her. But I have none. That gold was for me! For my freedom! For my escape!
Igbob isn’t allowing me any sense of freedom. He pulls me by my hair, forces me back into the bedroom I awoke from moments ago. Using his foot, he kicks the door closed and shoves me onto the bed. Licking his lips, he unbuckles his belt, letting loose his pants that puddle at his ankles.
Terror erupts through me, a typhoon of horror and alarm. My eyes widen—my body trembles in complete and utter fear.
He lurches toward me, untrimmed fingernails digging in my arms. “I’ll show you what happens to girls who lie.” He puckers his lips, attempting to meet my mouth with ravenous anticipation.
A volcanic rage builds in me, sprouts from my toes, through my legs, up my chest, and out of my hands that grip his neck. Igbob squeals like a pig as his skin begins to sizzle. As my hands begin to sizzle. He claws at my hands, yelping his apologies as the skin around his neck sloughs off and splatters onto my lap. Releasing my hold, I suck down a breath and stare at my hands as if they’re not my own. My palms and fingertips are covered in patches of skin and stained crimson with blood. Body trembling, I observe Igbob, his blue eyes charged with fear. He uses both hands to hold his neck, spewing blood, and races for the bedroom door.
With a gurgled cry, he calls for my mum. She barrels into the room and screams a hysteric scream that rattles me to my soul.
“W-W-Wiiitch!” is all Igbob says before he collapses to the floor in a puddle of his blood.
Mum tries to resuscitate Igbob by shouting his name at the top of her lungs, cradling his limp head in her hands, rocking back and forth.
Wobbling to my feet, my entire body protests the sudden incline, and I fall over onto the dresser, knocking bottles of perfume and jewelry to the floor. My vision spins, cartwheels like an acrobat, blurring the room around me in a hazy sea of encroaching blackness.
The last thing I hear before the dark of exhaustion takes hold of me is my mum’s endless plea for Igbob to live.
***
SOMETHING COLD AND wet snaps me out of my sleep. I awaken with pain coursing through my body like a rodeo and water drenching me to the bone. Bleary-eyed, I squint at my surroundings, everything from the floor, the walls and ceiling, a charcoal gray color. I’m lying flat on a slab of stone, the cold of the stony bed freezing my backside. Straining to sit upright, I press my head against the craggy wall; tiny, sharpened rocks poke my head like spears. Compared to the unrelenting torrent of pain enveloping my body, the rocks are the least of my concern. The bars of steel, however, are what worries me the most.
I’m in prison.
A guard in a blue uniform, of nothing but rippling muscles and judgmental brown eyes, holding a bucket in one hand, hisses at me. “Wake up, witch.” He stands on the opposite side of the bars and motions for someone to come to his side. “You have a visitor.”
“She gets a visitor?” Says a mouse-like voice to my left. A woman, clothed in rags and chained at the ankles, glowers at me. “She’s been here, what, a few hours, and she already has someone here to see her? Where are my visitors?”
“Shut your trap, you!” The guard says.
The mouse-voiced woman hangs her head, her blonde hair cascades over her muck-covered face.
The guard unlocks the cell door; it creaks as he pulls it open for my visitor to enter. My visitor’s back is illuminated by torchlight, a flaming orange-red aura encircling them as they enter.
“Mum?” I say to the figure.
The figure snorts. “Your mother is preparing a funeral for her beloved, thanks to you.” His voice, a saccharine tenor, is one I’m all too familiar with. Vicar Saint Luke. His presence is daunting, insidious energy laced into every step he takes as he paces from end to end with the holy bible in his hands.
The Vicar is a tall man, about six foot six, big feet, and an even bigger disdain for witches. His pulpit robes, embroidered with a red crescent moon on the shoulders, hang loosely around his body like a paper bag. His brown hair is styled in a bowl cut, which shields his silver eyes from view. I am too afraid to stare into his eyes, not when his presence is already telling enough.
I’m going to be executed.
The history books have told of witches, wizards, and all magical creatures that commit crimes against humans are scheduled to be executed come moonrise. The execution is done before an enormous gathering of people in the town; it’s like a party for those who despise witches. Drinking is encouraged; even public nudity is sometimes allowed. The last execution was over a hundred years ago; a wizard killed for his crime of passion against the man he loved.
“My father always said that if I ever want to become a true Vicar,” the Vicar says as he grips his bible tight, “then I must experience my first beheading. And by the Goddess, I will. All thanks to you, Elyse.”
I say nothing. What could I possibly say to the Vicar that would absolve me of being a witch? Of killing another human being. Staring at the floor, I shut my eyes tight, fighting the urge to break down and cry. Vahilda was right. I’m going to die.
“You’ve got me locked in here with a witch!” My cellmate tugs against the chain, keeping her prisoner. “Get me out of here—”
“Silence!” The Vicar smacks his hand against the bible, successfully shutting the woman up. Slowly, like an animal stalking his prey, the Vicar lowers to my level, squatting. He thumbs through the pages of his worn-out bible and reads a passage to me. “The wicked shall perish, for they are enemies of the Goddess. Her enemies shall perish like flowers in a field; they will disappear like smoke.” He wets his lips and sighs. “Who knew such a smart girl like you had such a wicked soul. So much potential gone to waste. Shall the hellfire of Parnissi welcome you into its eternal flame. May the Goddess have mercy on your soul, Elyse.”