Deadman speaking

Malcolm sat on his bench dressed in thick warm clothing, drinking a cup of hot tea, listening to music in his ear buds. Peace, no stress, no hallucination, just peace of mind.

He sipped his tea, when he noticed a glowing string out on the fire escape. Malcolm's eyes followed it up to his lap, he picked it up and tugged on it, feeling it loosely around his neck.

It tugged back, and he was encircled in warmth. Something he usually felt when Tala showed her face.

‘Go,’ a hush voice said, ‘Momma, wait for you at the tree.’

Malcolm could only nod, enchanted as he climbed out the window into the chilly air. He heard so many voices telling him to move, ‘It's an adventure. Don’t shy away now,’ a woman said.

‘Breath, young one,’ A man said, ‘You fear not what is in you.’

 ‘Your destiny awaits, kid.’ and ‘You belong there, with all of us.’

Malcolm came upon a cemetery, in the field area a long way from home. Right next to it was a large church-like building. Memorized, he wandered the perimeter of the cemetery and found an opening large enough for him to pass through. ‘Your almost there. Good job,’ a male deep voice called.

He squeezed through, and fell into the dirt.  ‘Follow the string, she waited patiently.’ Following it through, passing stones finding himself at the end of the string. It tied to a branch on the weeping willow tree.

He tugged on it and it faded away. Malcolm huffed “Damn episodes,” He said looking around.

‘Welcome,’ Tala spoke to him, ‘this is the start.’ He looked up and let out a cry seeing the beautiful woman hanging there, dead as a door knob. Her body spun facing him, eyes opened to look at him, she slowly lifted her arm in his direction. ‘Bend time and space, fill in the blankets, of past present and feature. Let us see what isn’t known, break these earthly chains. Let us see the beginning.’

There his vision blurred and he fell over. He wheezed as he found himself in a crowd of white dirty men. A young woman was dragged up to the disgusting fish barrel. The crown men shouting curses at the young woman. She was covered in dirt and ash, two braided pulls apart and a mess. A ripped up blue dress, and a man threw her against the barrel. Her hands were tied back with rusted shackles.

“Hey!” Malcolm shouted at the man but he didn’t even flinch at his voice.

 “Filthy witch,” the man slurred. Malcolm strutted up, waved his hand in the guy's face next to him. Nothing. Was I dreaming?...

She pushed herself to her feet, and a young boy fixed the barrel up right. People all looked like a puritian or a pilgrim from Malcolm history books. The boy's hands were shaking but he held a frown, stone cold face towards the woman.

She was helped up onto the barrel by the stone cold boy. She growled at men who touched her. Her face was angry. An older man dressed as an old timey priest walked out of the crowd with a bit of a limp.

 “Emily Smith,” he said with a heavy heart, “you have been found guilty of witchcraft. You have tampered with Rebeckah memories to not remember her attacker and it's stated that you have come to Rebekah and her sister in spirit to take their soul, and by an anonymous court,” the older man said, “You have been sentenced to hang for your crimes. Do you wish to confess to being a witch and end this evil?” 

She cleared her throat, stood tall and proudly said a loud voice, “ I am not an evil witch. I am Tala Proxila. I am innocent. I never had blood on my hand.”

The crowd went wild in shouts that she should hang. She cleared her throat as a man placed the noose around her neck, and the man tightened it with a glare. 

No way...this can be happening, Malcolm thought.

“May I see all, in the inferno gates, suffered as I, and that demon I was forced to wed,” she seethed glaring at a man with black hair, “I will watch everything you love, blackens like you, and let it rot. This whole town knows of your horrid crimes you have committed,” she said glaring at a man. Malcolm looked back at them man. He held a devilish smirk on his lips, the man from the painting. 

“In the name of the son, the father and the holy ghost, may this wicked witch be sent to the inferno gates,” he said, making a cross, and folding his hand into a prayer, “Amen,” he said and the crowd repeated and fell into angry shouts once more.

Tala looked towards the nervous boy who was about to kick her barrel out from under her. She smiled down at him, he looked no older than Malcolm. 

 “Son, you don't have to worry, I’ll do it myself,” She jumped forward and kicked the barrel behind her.  

“No!” Malcolm shouted instinctively, reaching out for her. The crowd roared in cheers and shouted over her gasps as she slowly began to suffocate. Malcolm couldn’t breath, he reached up and felt the rope around his neck. He saw the crowd cheering for his death below, as he hung.

He gasped as he awoke laying at the base of the tree. He laughed harshly grabbing his neck, he felt the burns on his skin from the rope. 

He sobbed, “I’m dreaming...I’m dreaming,” He repeated to himself. He felt something move, Tala sat in front of him with a soft smile, ‘Breath Malcolm,’ she told him. 

Tears fell from his face, as he took deep breaths, whipping them, “You're showing me this...Why?” he pleaded. She reached up and ran a hand through his hair, so warm and tender, motherly.  She said nothing as her lips moved, speaking in silence.

“I can’t hear you,” Malcolm cried, and laid his head down. He cried quietly beside her, as she rubbed his Back lightly. He fell asleep under the tree, cold and sad.