Thinking back, this shouldn't be surprising. I am a pathetically easy target.
"Keep moving, scum."
His voice is almost lost among the angry shouts of the crowd. When I don't respond, the man's strong arms push me forward. I lunge in response, a bitter look forming in my eyes. His hands feel gruff, full of dirt. I'm forced over the gravel pathway as his shoving continues. I stare daggers at his puffy red face, which only brings on another series of shoving.
The strong wind is the only thing pushing me away from that ghastly place. Everything else forces me forward. My heartbeat flutters helplessly as the oak then comes into view. My bitterness fades into complete and utter terror. I look around frantically for someone, anyone, to take pity and help me. Of course, nobody would put their own neck on the line for a gypsy. The villagers look at me accusingly, the bags under their eyes making them look like vultures ready to pick the flesh off my bone the second I fall.
"Please, I'm innocent!"
My pleas continue the closer and closer we get to that cursed tree. The bark is a pitch black color, streaks of crimson tinting parts of it. I gulp, knowing it's the recently shed blood of past victims. At the sight of it, I frantically start to fight with the shackles. My attempts only make them grow tighter as if they're snakes trying to choke the life out of me. The clinging feeling grows intense, the guards grip on my shoulders only increasing this feeling. I can't breathe.
"You're a witch! A cursed, filthy witch!"
The cry comes from somewhere in the ever growing crowd. My kicking and failing temporarily ceases as I look out, trying to see who had made the accusation. I can't pick out anyone, but I notice their eerily similar mannerisms. Their dejected looks fade against the grey, dreary sky. The mix of hatred and anger gives me chills, so much so that I look past them. I spot a circle of ravens fly towards us. I snicker dryly. I suppose public executions entertained birds now too.
Perhaps, though, a creature as simple as a bird won't expect a woman such as myself to be like everyone else. So what if I didn't always attend public events with the rest of the village? If I didn't attend mass regularly? Did my differences warrant the title of murderess and witch? Their idea of what I should be, what I should do for their community, has real effects on my people. Real consequences. I'm only the newest victim.
By now I'm standing by the tree. The executioner ties the rope around my neck. It feels cold, empty, scratchy- like death. By now the tears are streaming down my cheeks, my loud cries accompanying them.
"You stand accused of witchcraft, any last earthly words?"
I stare the preacher, an elderly man with grey hair that tumbled across his forehead, dead in the eyes. He might have my life, but he will not have my confession.
"You have no proof of it! No proof at all! You can't assume I'm a witch because of where I live, what I look like! Gypsy's are innocent to witchery! This ugly judgment will end me! My life!"
His soulless eyes scoff and he shakes his head ever so slightly. His eyes are filled with malicious spiders, thirsty for blood.
"We sentence you to hang until dead, both for your salvation of our community, and for your own."
I try to let out one last word before I'm pushed-
Snap
**Picture credits to the artists**
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