Wit. Wit. My love, my heart, where are you? You have left me to die? To rot? To mourn?
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It has always been so easy for people to forsake witches as wicked.
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My eyelashes blinked dew off them, wishing I had a neck to turn my head from side to side so that the drops would pile against my cheek instead of pooling in my eye. It takes a while before I can see.
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The music starts up. I grit my teeth and paste on a smile.
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Mrs. Willen wiped off the 14th February from the whiteboard with the rag. She felt a flush of heat and put down the rag. In its place she wrote, quite deliberately, quite carefully: 15th February. Her handwriting was large, square and clear. Then she took up the rag once more and erased the 15. A lone th was left, looking blankly at her from the whiteboard.
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A man of many faces takes one from his hall, from beside the coat stand, and wears it to his day. When he gets home, he hangs up his skin on a coat hanger, and leaves his thoughts in whatever he is reading.
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Sitting on the wall, she lets her feet hang into the old chapel. The congregation fell silent long ago, their passionate adorations no longer giving the place purpose, for what are walls without people? The priest continues longer so the histories say, staggering through life on a pitiful wage, trapped on that savage land so remote and distant from company. But he was loyal to his duty and his lord and so stayed as he was bidden.
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She pulled her carefully woven shawl, now frayed and yellowed from the dust of the years, about her shoulders. Underneath the gathering clouds, she stared out at the waters before her, waiting to hear the voice of a visitor she knew was coming.
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It was hard to explain to somebody else, but while you were in the middle of it all, it just felt worth it. Worth the way things fell apart and worth the abruptness with which they ended.
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As I stand by the window, the crisp air embraces my face; I inhale, I exhale. The elm trees in the distance sway slightly, a slow dance to the soft notes of the wind, with its intimate movements evoking those of two lovers in the fantasy of a dreaming romantic.
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I miss the touch. That is what I think as I stare past the glass into the nursery. The carefully ordered squares of wildflowers beyond do not, I imagine, stare back. If they did, I’m sure it would be with narrowed eyes and venomous thoughts.
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The synthetic hormones travelled throughout my arms, down my legs, through my organs. They travelled up my back and seeped into my wings, and with each pump of poison, my wings began to crumble.
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