Take Note

1344 words

Rated PG: mature subject matter, violence

Prompt: Write about someone who never planned to make history but is now about to deliver a speech in front of millions.

Author’s note: That’s right, I’m not dead.

I try to wave, but it’s hard with the chains. They bind my feets to my arms, seriously restricting my movements. My feet are also bare, so I’m feeling the full heat of the metal on them. It stings, but that is the least of my worries.

The video camera is sliding closer to me, to capture all the curves and scars of my body. The long line that extends from the tip of my eyebrow to the opposite cheek. It bumps over my nose, too. I think next week is its third birthday.

I think of all the people tuning in to watch the event. I am the star of the show. No one can ignore me now. I stop myself from crying. I can’t crumple on the floor. One, because I have a reputation to uphold. Two, because guards on either side of me have a hand clamped on my shoulder. The sunlight doesn’t affect their determined faces.

I feel the tears forming in my eyes. I know my vision is becoming blurry. I take two deep breaths. My therapist reminds me to take deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. It’s supposed to calm you down. However, if you do it too much, you get dizzy, so be careful. I know from experience. Though, maybe upsetting my mental state wouldn’t be such a bad thing at the moment.

The announcer is three feet in front of me on this wooden platform. They’re wearing a yellow jaw clip to hold back their bangs. Their blue vest with light polka dots ends at their waist. The black dress pants dust the floor. They also touch their Chelsea shoes.

Their words are garbled, but that’s probably just me. I focus on their voice, and it clears up.

“Hundreds of years ago, witches were hunted. Individuals who could perform magic were simply too dangerous for the world. The same philosophy holds true today.”

My throat is too dry, and my mind is too tired, to protest them.

“The issue was, we thought that they were exterminated by the 18th century.”

They pause for dramatic effect.

“However, two years ago, Dr. Thiago Zavala, Ph.D., found evidence that this wasn’t true.”

I remember that day. I was just scrolling the internet when the article popped up on my notifications. It had matched all the subjects I set the notification to. I pressed it, and started reading the doctor’s findings. I was appalled when I found out he had done everything right.

They had conducted surveys, asking obscure questions that only witches would answer correctly, like when a rose usually pricks you or how old a cat is when it learns insults. Small questions, so no one would get suspicious.

They also presented a full plate of food to a person, and watched what they took first. Witches, without hesitation, took green beans. He had taken all his information, plus a few little hunches, and written a book.

I read the article talking about Why You Need Should Keep Apotropaic Symbols passing the 50 million copies sold. It was trapping the online community in it’s net. By reading that article, I became one of the people caught.

“The country was in panic. Of course, Dr. Zavala worked with the government, we were able to raid witch homes. It was a smashing success, and made international news.”

My brother died in one of the raids. Stabbed with a silver knife. Which, by the way, works just as well as any other blade. The real thing that makes it dangerous is how old it is, and whether any witches have touched it in the past.

“Germany called us crazy. France called us crazy. Canada called us crazy. China called us crazy. Even the United States called us crazy.”

The foreign talk shows making fun of the witch movement became a well-known meme. It was shared and re-shared and spread like a virus. You couldn’t go on the internet without finding a gif of the hosts laughing. Not by me, though. I didn’t really find it all that funny.

“However, you don’t see witches swarming the stage. In the past 7 years, we have eradicated every last one of the witches remaining here. We have closed our borders. We have done security checks. We have banned certain food. Our government has worked tirelessly to rid us of this threat.”

The people, watching the broadcast as a family at home, are probably cheering.

“Well, all but one.”

Then, the announcer gestures to me. Me, in the clean, white, cotton shift they threw me in. Me, whose hair is pulled back in a tight braid. Me, who is bound to the floor. Me, who’s about to burst into tears. 

“Everyone, this is the last witch alive, who will be killed via a stab in the heart with a silver knife.”

Despite my circumstances, I roll my eyes.

“This witch has one request. A speech. The last witch to ever exist in the country wants the final word. Our country is not cruel, so we have had the wish granted.”

I nod at the camera.

“So, without further ado, the last witch, who prefers their name remain anonymous.”

The announcer moves the microphone stand from where it is to where I am tied down. I watch the cord catch as the talking piece is a centimetre from my lips. The announcer backs it up a bit.

“Thank you.” I croak.

The announcer nods, and retreats beyond my field of vision.

“Um, hi. I am indeed the last witch. I can assure you that the worst torture imaginable was inflicted on me, in case I was covering for anyone.”

I wince at the thought of the whip making contact with my bleeding skin.

“I-” My voice is getting teary. I clear my throat. “I wanted to say something, before I was taken away forever.”

I choke at the ‘forever’ part.

“I actually wrote a poem.”

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

“I hope you like it.”

I remember the verses composed while I sat in my cell. It took a while to know by heart, but now they echo deep inside my bones.

“My life. You are taking my life

You puncture my world with a knife

I never thought this would be how it went

But you’re so confident hell’s where I’ll be sent

I hate the way you whisper my name

I hate how you pass on the blame

Guess what? I’m a witch

This doesn’t mean I’m rich

This doesn’t mean that I cackle

It means put me in shackles

I’m a witch, I can’t change it

My voice does have many ranges

This witch will never forget

I’m the worst witch you ever met.”

I have to stop, because I’m trembling and sobbing. My cheeks are soaked with salt and water. I would have fallen if it weren’t for the guards.

“I want you all to know that this is unforgivable. This is wrong. This is genocide. Think about how the government was so quick to approve this movement. But what about a jail time for rape? What about gay marriage? What about the real problems? No one seems to think it’s a big issue!” I scream.

The camera-person flinches.

“What did we ever do to you? Taught you hygiene, that’s what! Believed in science, that’s what! We should be executing you, you're the real villains!”

My speech keeps stopping because I have to swallow or release a sob.

“So, here’s a present, from the witch community. May it bring you everlasting suffering.”

I stare directly at the camera. I scream. I feel my eyes turn red. Black smoke surrounds me, and tries to break my chains. It knocks out the security guards.

One more deep breath.

“May your world be as black as your heart, you beast!” I yell to the sky.

A knife slices my heart from behind. It doesn’t matter. Now that I’m gone, the world’s going to get a lot darker.