The Forgotten Won't Be Silenced

The Forgotten Won’t Be Silenced

By: Raven Wren

By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. The sky was a coal ignited red, glowing the crimson orange of the devil's eyes. He himself would fear the dark abyss of my oblivion. If the devil burns hot I am ash; if the devil burns cold I am a pillar of ice plunged into the coldest tundra. I am frozen, unable to move, unable to light the flame in my chest and make my life burn bright again. I have been poisoned with the sixth sense of my demise. I know they come for me; yet, I cannot seem to move. My brain is melting away in fear; I can now hear their marching footsteps approach. As burning torches come into view I realize it isn’t the leaves of nature burning around me, nor the apocalyptic sky set ablaze, it was their rage seeking to smolder me out. I see a world on fire, and soon it will be me. The mob will soon set their stack pile with kindling, and ignite me with fire. I am a witch, and I will burn for it.

Just days ago I was going about my day, performing mundane tasks alike every other normal day. Following my routine, I decided to go for a walk in the late afternoon to watch the blistering sunset. I let my mind release the tension of my lonesome burdens, and just listened to the breeze. I picked daffodils and other wild flowers that grow in the open fields near my home. I felt at peace with myself; I was content in the silence that plagued my life. My loneliness being everlasting, so it seemed, did not make me blind to the misery of others. There was sickness spreading around my town, and death took many of my neighbors within the last several days. Fortunately, being alone kept me from becoming ill as well, and my long strolls through the fresh air seem to improve my health. Oblivious to the lurking widowers and curious grieving children, I did not go unnoticed that day. How odd I must have seemed to the grief stricken families, as I strolled healthily through the forest and picked flowers and herbs. Through their resentful eyes they could not see my own pain; although, it wouldn’t have mattered. The rumors spread within hours, and like roots the stories took hold; every soul of sorrow within miles of me believed me to be a witch. The lone girl who lost her family, young and full of essence, unable to find love, could only find peace by tormenting others. I caused misery and harm with poisonous potions from wild flowers.

Without a love of my own or a family to grieve, I will be forgotten. I have lived a simple life of solitude, and my dreams are but nowt. There have been others like me, and there will forever be more. Those without purpose, those without hope and opportunity. Objects to fill voids in space and conversation. Collateral nothings; forgotten no ones. I will not be missed; I won’t even be remembered. Centuries of life and even history doesn’t remember them all. I will go peacefully, I will not fight. I am nothing more than an estimated number; what is one casualty among thousands? Do you remember me? The thought of me may appear in your mind, but what about the dame next to me? We are meaningless; witches to be burned, blamed, and obliterated. We will be buried from existence, gone forever. You may remember our story and our death, but no soul will remember our life. 

I was running through the forest, tears streaking down my face. The sun shone through the luminescent green leaves, brightening my tears. I was but a child praying to escape the death of her parents. I wanted the sky to glow with strife and strike me down with them. This was when I first learned not to be afraid of being burned, but instead to fear the icy breath inhaled when your sobs subside. The deep breath of burning and forgotten pain is pure bliss, and self soothing, sadistic pleasure. Maybe I am a witch, if I enjoy and await the breath of relief that comes after you sob in pain.  

I am now in the cell, ready to be incinerated to crimson ruble and ash. When they took me I was frozen in fear, and now I am nothing more than a corpse. I am the epitome of the living dead, set to be destroyed before the rigor mortis can make me still. My world has stood still, yet they still come, they tear me from my trance and bring me to my stake. I do not hear the yells and slurs around me, not even the devil dare whisper in my ear. It is quiet, I do not scream. I gladly accept my death, the other moans of my neighbors fall on my deaf ears, but they do not penetrate. I do not feel the flames anymore, but I do see them. They are on the leaves of nature surrounding me. They dance for my demise, begging the stars and lighting to join them. I watch them, waiting to vanish into my despair. I take my last breath, hoping for the last joyous pleasure of icy pain in my lungs, instead I get smoke.

I am a statistic, a meaningless existence, I never stood a chance against their rage. There are thousands like me, and millions more to come. Doomed to be forgotten; flickered from reality. Will they be heard or will they be reduced to ashes too? My hope is that their silence will alight embers that will chill the bones of those brave enough to take a deep breath while glancing into the devil’s soul. They think they know pain, but the burning leaves mock them, and the devil sneers while he watches with hollow eyes of glowing damnation. They will know our pain, and at least that will be remembered.