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When they fell, I fell too. Like a stone swept up in the currents of a stream, a poor bird with wings not strong enough to resist the winds. I allowed my story to be woven into a narrative that was not my own, untrue in its illustrations. Now the fire flickers and my home is not my own. Chair creaks and I sigh and the wind whistles past the open windows, the sounds becoming one. My eyes flit upwards and he sits in the chair opposite me, watching. He is chained, yes, but his cool glare full of contempt and calculations is ever-present and I want to shiver. I should have let him go in the years that have passed, but I sometimes find his company…tolerable. Occasionally tolerable company is better than nothing at all, I suppose. Still. 

He does not speak, I do not know why. His clear, musical voice is one of his best qualities. So we sit alongside the sounds that have become the background noise to my monotonous life. I cannot take it.

“Speak,” I order. His face twinges and he looks as if he wants to leap out of his chair.

“What do you wish me to speak of?”

“I do not know. Anything, everything.”

“Do you want to hear the story again?”

“No.”

“Do you have any songs you like?”

“No.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?” I let out a huff of frustration and march to the door of my hut. Mud-packed walls and rickety ceilings are what I know, outside is nearly a mystery. I try not to leave if I can help it. But the smell of the fresh emerald grass and the gentle sway of the branches is too intoxicating to resist. Soon the hinges are creaking and I leave him behind, closing the door and locking him away. 

My bare feet on the grass. Who needs shoes? Surely not me, I am too primitive for that. At least, that is what I hear from the distasteful glances I receive. In reality, shoes are a bother and I cannot afford them even if they were something I desired. If that makes me some sort of pariah, so be it. I could slip into a pair of clunky boots, it wouldn’t make any difference. No matter how hard I try, I will always be viewed as other. So why try at all? Why waste my energy, when instead of trying to gain acceptance I could be using my unusual position to my advantage. That is what I have always done, that is why he sits in my house right now, obeying my will and hanging onto my every word like a drooling dog eager for a reward. Or maybe a better comparison would be a schoolchild, alert to avoid a slap on the wrist. I do not treat him unfairly, but this is my revenge, so I try to make it as delicious as possible. 

The circumstances in which I obtained this specimen were unique. Usually, the prey are spontaneously chosen and disappear just as quickly. Not him. Just as he continues to linger in my life, his entry was carefully gradual. I was in a dark time, then. Still searching for acceptance, I slinked around town, my blue eyes eagerly flitting around the sights, searching for a similar pair to make contact with. But when the others saw them, if they did at all, they always appeared red. It became frustrating and I became bitter. So I began to familiarise myself with the concept of vengeance, that it does not always need to be for a loved one. Instead, it can be for yourself, for the death of your reputation. Resurrection was not an option. Once he began to see me, first in the river and then everywhere he looked, I knew he was scared. So I gave him a bit of time. I turned my attention to others, who could be over and done within a much shorter time. Meanwhile, I let him stew, gathering his courage to confront me. It was inevitable. Something in boys always makes them eager for a stand-off, a petty trait that nonetheless helps my agenda. When we eventually collided, things went exactly as I planned. I felt grateful, lucky even. But that feeling faded and was replaced with melancholy.

Now…I don’t know what to do with him. What happens when you extract your revenge? Sweet at first, quickly turning sour then finally rotten. Without my anger at the world, at the men, I feel hollow. Does that mean he is no longer useful? His stories, his retellings of my exploits no longer have the same flair as they once did. At first, they were amusing, riddled with untruths, fantasies that were products of his fearful delirium. Soon it gets boring, listening to yourself be called unnaturally magical every day. Exhausting, even. I stop to catch my breath, leaning on a tree, my skin grating against the rough bark. I hadn’t even realised I was walking. Soon air fills my lungs, rushing in passionate floods. With it comes clarity. I no longer need revenge. Long ago it had been a way to cope, to express my frustration. But I wasn’t angry anymore. Just numb. Now that I understand this truth, I know how to turn my life around. 

I blow open the door to the hut. Unsurprisingly, he has remained sitting, his knuckles still firmly gripping the arms of his chair. In only a few strides I am by his side, my hands working. Chains unlock.

“Up.” He pales and moves to his feet. I don’t know what to do beyond that, already stuck. It has been so long, the process of kindness has been forgotten. We watch each other with caution and confusion. He speaks, on his own, possibly for the first time.

“Why? What will happen to me?” I smile, and I can tell he is taken aback by it.

“Nothing. I promise.”

“I don’t trust you.” It is a matter-of-fact statement.

“Why not?” I am almost teasing.

“Because you are a witch.”

My fists clench. That word…witch. It makes my blood boil, my jaw clench and my teeth grate down to sand. Anything else, he could have said anything else. Then I would have had led him out of the hut and released him back into the world, to return to his little shack and continue his pathetic life. But I should have known better. Every time I give men a chance, they stab me in the back. Now I do the same. Pick up the blade, slip it into his spine. He topples to the ground, not even realising that a weapon was ever even used. From his perspective, I would be the weapon, a dangerous creature never to be trusted. A witch.

So maybe I am an extremist. Some might say I take things too far, that death is not a worthy punishment. But I died so long ago, and I am still forced to remain in this terrible land and endure. Death is the better option, I insist. What I do they should be grateful for, all of them, not just the men. If they do not accept the truth, if they refuse to be radicalised, that is their own fault. If they choose to view me as supernatural, as evil, then they may suffer the consequences. Perhaps that’s what always amused me about his stories he told me by the fire. I am not even a witch. Not in the slightest. Although, I will admit I am a bit mad.