Beldam Unfinished

Out beneath my feet leaves lay scattered on the ground. Their crispy brown edges curling up like cold toes. A plump purple face steps into my line of sight. Even in my last moments they can’t allow me something nice. 

‘The accused is allowed a final statement.’ The purple face speaks, spit flying. 

 The crowd stares at me, expectant. Oh gosh, what pressure. I’d never put much thought into what my last words would be. Why would I? I didn’t expect to ever be swinging from a giant tree. It should be punchy, meaningful. Something that makes someone stop and think when reading it in a book. It should make this pleasant crowd question their morals. It can’t be too on the nose, that would only make them righteous. Someone in a big hat coughs. Not sure who, they all have on big hats. I take in a breath. This is my moment, what I'll be remembered for. 

‘Get wrecked.’

 Boo’s. A thunder of shouts. ‘Kill the bitch!’ one utters.

‘Let her swing!’ another screeches.

 Wrong crowd I guess. Mr. Purple walks over to me. He reaches for the wooden lever and he goes to pull it down.

‘WAIT!’ a shout sounds from the crowd. They all turn to locate the voice. I knew it was her the moment she hissed. Thomasine steps out in front of the people. She throws her pointer finger at me. ‘The harlot needs to suffer.’

 I roll my eyes. ‘They were just about to get to that.’

‘Someone gag her.’ A mother helpfully suggests.

 Mr. Purple contemplates it before giving me a look and shaking his head. I wouldn’t put any fingers near my mouth either. ‘What are you proposing?’ He asks.

 Thomasine smirks. She pokes a crystal out of her pocket, just enough for me to see it. She drops it back in. Codswallop! 

‘I propose we wish her unbelievable horrors in the afterlife. Leave no room for error. We can’t risk her befriending the devil and coming back for revenge.’

‘Uh shucks! That was exactly my plan.’ 

‘Hush, witch!’ Mr. Purple seriously considers Thomasine’s idea. ‘How would we go about that?’

‘Funny, I had an idea on how she should be damned. Allow me to run it by you.’ Thomasine climbs the platform to the gasps of the crowd. We stand face to face. I snarl. She slips the crystal into my pocket. ‘I hope you’re flexible.’ She winks.

 ‘Annabella may you suffer for the sins you have committed against the wives of this town. May you spend the rest of time allowing yourself to never find a way out of your cycle of righting wrongs.’ With her eyes closed, she covers her mouth with a hand to mumble unintelligible incantations. ‘Amen.’ She smiles.

‘Amen.’ The crowd harmonises. 

 My own mouth is agape. Are they really that stupid! ‘It’s a curse! You dimwits.’ I stress. They don’t acknowledge my cries. Mr. Purple once again tightens his grip on the lever. No. no. no. 

‘NO! Please, please don’t. Please!’ I yell and I scream. I’m met with faces of glee. Thomasine has since joined the crowd, nestled beside her cruel husband Ralph. She waves me farewell. The afterlife has never scared me. I wait 30-40 years and I'm rebirthed, that’s fine I could use a vacation. But spend the rest of time in a loop righting wrongs I didn’t even commit! Thomasine knew exactly which spot to poke. 

 Mr. Purple pulls the lever. The floor drops from under me. I'm yanked up and the rope tightens in the quickest motion. Hard calloused hands clasped around my throat. I sputter out and desperately try to grasp for air but there’s none for me to have. I meant to go out silent and dignified but I’ve let them get the show they so desperately wanted. Mr. Purple comes towards me with a blazing torch. He gently presses it to the hem of my skirt. It goes up in seconds. A chorus of cheers sounds from the back of the crowd. It builds pressure and forces its way to me. My legs drip in sweat, heat inching its way up increasingly close to my skin. Their voices push on and it grows closer. They push hard, the cheers louder than they’ve been. It meets my skin. Tickle, prickle, a thousand sharp pokes from head to toe and that's when it begins to burn. My skin lights up, pulses into a thick bubble. Pop. I screech. The sensation repeats itself all over my body. The fire slithers up my chest, I bit down hard on my lip. My eyes close.

 I didn’t think I could die but now that I have, I can’t understand what all the fuss is about. It’s terribly peaceful, once you cross over. The pain ceases, the heart mends and the brain kind of smooths out. I can’t make anything out yet. I wonder how long I've been gone and how much longer I'll be stuck in the darkness. I’d like to get a move on with the introductions and start relaxing. Today was tiring. If I could feel my body I'd reach out for something to grab. Unfortunately I think I'm no longer connected to one. Maybe just a spirit? Now that I'm conscious, they must be coming soon. How long does the crossover take?? I can’t take much more of this waiting around before I go crazy. Shouldn’t someone be here to talk me through it, let me know everything’s going right? Unless it isn’t. Maybe I'm already crossed over! This is my afterlife. Just a black void! I atleast figured I'd get a room to myself even if it was sweltering, this is just inconsiderate. I’ve gotta get out of here!!

‘Ms.Thomas?’ Sheets. Cold and plain. I can feel them. I pull them, the edge comes off. My eyes seem glued shut. I try to push my eyelids off one another but my face isn’t functioning right. 

‘Ms. Thomas? Are you awake?’ a warm air hovers above my forehead. It presses down, damp on damp. I haven’t totally lost feeling. I slow my breathing-realising my heart is beating at a rapid pace. I concentrate hard. I attempt a small scrunch of the face. I think it budges. I try another and yes--it moves. One eyelid breaks. I peek through the opening to a world of blur. As the other opens, the room slowly adjusts into view. Beds line the opposite wall, most unoccupied. The others have sleeping tenants. The sweaty hand comes back towards me, it adjusts my blanket. As I turn, it burns–my neck like a rusty soup can. She couldn’t be any older than twenty. She gives me a sweet smile. 

‘Whe-’ I pass a wretched cough. ‘Where am I?’ my words come out like pieces of a damaged puzzle. 

‘The hospital wing Ms. Thomas. You caught quite the cold.’ She has a sweet accent I can't place. She laughs lightly as she has me bend forward to fluff my pillow. I lay back down. 

‘Why do you keep calling me that? Ms…’ I twist my teeth. I glare out into space as if the woman were standing in front of me. Only she would think of a detail like this.

‘Ms. Thomas! That is your name. We expected the flu might affect your head. It shouldn’t last too long.’ She turns to pour water from a crystal pitcher. 

‘What’s your name?’

 She hands me a cup of water. I take a tiny sip. ‘Louise? Ma'am.’ She bows her head.

‘When am I allowed to leave here Louise?’ I take another sip.

‘Whenever you’d like.’ 

I swing my feet onto the ground. Slippers lay waiting for me. I stand up. I plop right back down. Louise puts a delicate hand on my shoulder. ‘Your head might be light. Take your time ma’am.’ 

 I push up with one foot and almost fall back again. Louise takes hold of my arms. I let her help me up. She lets me find my own balance. ‘Thank you.’ 

‘Of course, ma’am. Come back before dinner tonight for a checkup.’ She holds her apron in her hands. I glimpse the snoring patients as I struggle by, they look younger than Louise. Maybe it’s a school or an orphanage? I push open the door.

  When I step into the hallway, I’m instantly greeted by an inharmonious chorus of ‘Hello, Ms. Thomas’ from every which way. With each turn of my head, my stomach grows weaker. I rest against a wall and close my eyes, letting my senses do their work. My nose perks up. I follow the trail. 

 Children dressed exactly alike sit among the long tables, eating what looks like wet cement. I spot the kitchen and wobble towards it. Would love for my feet to remember how to walk, not exactly graceful. I join the line behind a girl, maybe 13-14. I watch her take a tray and copy her actions. She moves up the line, I follow. She holds her tray up and a monstrous hand in a thick black rubber glove plops down a heaping serving of stinky grey sludge into her bowl. She bows her head, expressionless before turning to the tables. 

‘Is that all you have?’ I raise an eyebrow at the…food? The server crosses her arms. ‘Chilli not good enough for ya? Professors deserve their own meal plan now? Ha.’ she barks out. 

 Professor. Oh! She quirks her head at my suddenly wide eyes. I relax them. ‘I never said that. In fact the kids shouldn’t be eating this either.’ I use my elbow to gesture to the kids beside me. A few snicker. The server makes a show of lowering the bent metal spoon into the ‘chilli’. She pushes it to the very bottom of the pan and scoops up a huge helping. She gives me a toothy grin as she dumps the load onto my tray. It splatters on impact, it drips off my hand like chunky grey paint. I accept defeat and find a place next to the girl I was in line with. I get some of the grim soup onto my spoon and give it a sniff. The children eye me with confusion. 

‘Do you enjoy this?’ They shrug. ‘Is grey food normal here?’ I drop the spoon back in the bowl.

‘Foods not grey Ms. Thomas. Are you still ill?’ The young girl beside me squeaks in a thick accent-not British, something else. Not grey? Am I subjectively colour blind now or is this also Thomasine’s doing?  

‘Does anyone have any fruit?’ A tiny boy eyes me down from across the table. He sticks his arm in his bag and searches around with a focused expression. He then retreats his hand, rather impressed with himself. He holds an apple straight out for me. Grey. I take it and drop it in my lap and cover it with my napkin. I blink hard, only once. I peek under the napkin; still grey. Great. 

 A clang of trays crashing to the floor turns every head back to the line. A too tall man stands with his hands open like he just dropped something. Louise is knelt down attempting to scoop up grim soup with two trays. He looks out to us and shakily laughs. Based on his robe I assume he’s another professor. He watches Louise. A tray slips from her dripping hands. It hits the puddle, sending a droplet scarily close to his shoe. He steps back and scoffs. She mumbles an apology. What kind of person wouldn’t help clean up the mess? That desperate laugh–to mostly children mind you–makes me guess he doesn’t see her as an equal. He’s above cleaning up supposed chilli. 

 Ya, I don’t think so. I blink twice and wiggle my brows. He drops like a sack of potatoes on his knees. His mouth open. I shimmy off my cardigan. He lunges forward with hands out and takes the trays from Louise. He holds them up beside his head, the contents falling down onto his legs. The kids laugh. He frowns and opens his mouth. I shake my head. It snaps shut. I drum my fingers on the table. He begins scooping. He hoards the guck in between both of them and slowly brings it up. The trays slide out of his hands, slick with grim soup. It splatters in the same spot it once lived. Wink. He returns to his knees.

‘Louise!’ She turns and when she spots me, she lets out a breath. As she approaches me, her deep crimson face begins to lose its unnatural colour. I stand before she can sit and escort her into the hallway.

‘Who is that man?’ I ask.

 She tries to clean off her dress but she only accomplishes in smudging it more. ‘You’re memory sure is shot.’ She stays fixated on her dress. I pull her chin up with my hand. Our closeness allows me a finer look at her face. Dry peeling skin. Thin lines surrounding her sunken grey eyes. She works hard. 

‘Please just tell me Louise.’ 

‘Mr. Mauve ma’am. The science teacher.’

‘What do I teach? Pesky memory.’ I wave off my neurosis with a laugh.

 She certainly finds me strange. ‘English, of course.’

Well I certainly do have a way with words. 

‘How well do you know Mr. Mauve?’

 She opens her mouth to speak but is interrupted by the door swinging out between us. Mr. Mauve trudges through, drenched in the chilli from just about head to toe. He lets the door slam behind him, he’s got his mean mug focused on Louise. She turns her head to the side, avoiding his gaze. 

‘I am very angry right now. Do you have an idea as to why that is?’ He growls. Louise shakes her head, sinking into herself. ‘We have discussed how you are to act when we cross paths outside of my office. You are not to flinch or grin. You are not to crash into me spilling my lunch all over my person and the floor. If your goal is to draw attention to our situation, I would advise you to put more thought into that, girl. If you in any way harm my reputation I will ruin your life. You will lose this placement and die freezing on the street.’ 

 I tap Mr. Mauve on his tensed shoulder. He turns slow. His foul mouth agape. His bloodshot eyes on the edge of their lids. He coughs and straightens his robe, trying to regain composure. It doesn’t work. 

‘Ms. Thomas, Hello. I didn’t realise you were standing there…the whole time?’ His voice sinks at the end.

 I shrug. He mumbles a curse. He gets his big finger in both our faces, pointing back and forth as if it were threatening and not ridiculous. ‘Don’t think I’m afraid of some unqualified, spinster teacher and a nurse! They’d never take your word above mine.’ He snarls.

 ‘Louise, is he hurting you?’ I sidestep the fuming thing to get closer to her. She’s shrunken 3 feet, like she’s melting into the floorboards. Her lip trembles. She nods with her eyes shut. I sigh in contemplation. The cure Thomasine made comes hurtling back to me. Right my wrongs for the women I harmed. – For the record, not true.

This is why I’m here.

 I stare deep in behind Mr. Mauve’s eyes. His brain mushy, it closely resembles the infamous grim soup.​ The paths are padded thick and difficult to navigate. When I make my way through each one I find things that garner the prophecy. I also find things that don’t. 

‘What are you saying? What’s she saying!?’ He cries.

 Oh, I must be mumbling incantations. Maybe I’m stalling. I don’t know what would be right. Thomasine’s curse couldn’t have been a selfless act for womanhood. She must be playing an angle and I don’t want to fall for her tricks. So I won’t do it. I’m not a killer.

 I exit his mind to see tears streaming down Louise's face, she remains silent. Like she’s used to it. 

‘Stay back.’ I move her aside. His mouth flutters incoherent speech. His eyes flying all over the room. I place my hand on the side of his face, he is horrified. The hotness of his cheek leaves me sweating. His rapid breathing begins to slow. I move in close to his ear and whisper a breathy, ‘Close your eyes.’

 He does as he’s told. I curl my toes, allowing them to feel the earth and all it holds. I hold my other hand against my chest. A touch of the heart recalls my sisters and their grace. I relax each and every muscle, it is smooth jelly. I take my other hand and place it on the other side of his face. I perch up on the balls of my feet and lean in. I rest my lips on his forehead. I blow him away, lightly as if I were savouring a dandelion. When I open my eyes he is gone. 

‘What did you do with him!?’ Louise shrieks.

‘I gave him the kiss of death.’ I say in a sombre tone. I don’t feel proud of myself. 

 Louise yanks a cross out from her pocket and shoves it in my face. ‘What are you, some kind of witch!?’

‘Yes dear.’ I turn my back, praying to the high priestess I have done right by the kind nurse. 

 I did not sleep with husbands. I did not hurt my sisters. The woman who did, lay her blame on a fellow witch. Now I will spend eternity righting her wrongs, repenting her sins. She knew I wouldn’t want to kill but when it came down to saving my sister, I would. That’s her angle. The more people I kill, the more debt I must repay. The journey is not linear, it spirals into oblivion. 

That bitch.