In a sea of wailing black, Rachel stood an unnoticed gray, ignored as people mourned her memory. It was an odd sensation, as one might imagine, but the hurt she felt almost drowned out everything else. She felt so absurdly guilty for the pain she had caused. It was so like her, her mom would say, to cry for someone else's sake at her own funeral. The very thought left a bitter sting in her.
Her mother. The same mother suffering the death of one child while carrying another: her unborn brother. Her father, who was trying, rather unsuccessfully, to keep his sobs quiet next to her. Her sister. Her grandfather. Family, friends, neighbors, classmates. On and on, row after row of mourners.
They all looked up with red-rimmed eyes as the man at the front began her speech about the tragedy of her "short life- too precious to be gone so soon." She was a "kind soul" that was ever so "patient" and so on. It felt too easy to describe. Her entire life, personality, all of her dreams had become so compacted. She supposed she shouldn't be surprised.
People often reduce others to simple words to squeeze them into their simple minds, and, unsurprisingly, even this was not stopped by the barrier of death. Those wistful speeches presented at funerals were always just bravado. They comforted the living; they did not put the dead to rest. When you think about it, the person isn't there anymore- they're not themselves. They are not funny or smart or kind. They are dead.
One word: Dead. D-E-A-D.
You think of a dead person as such, but most of the time, no one thought of Rachel Landis at all. Death had made her its child, but had not welcomed her into its home. Something had held her back, forcing her to suffer not-life in limbo for years, and she was tired.
They say the truth will set you free, and Rachel certainly hopes that is the case; although, the truth might have been what damned her twenty years ago. The truth was that Rachel was a witch. She was a witch, and now she was dead. Murdered.
Of course, nothing is that simple. Nothing is set in stone, nothing is black and white, but it's rather hard to comprehend gray, now isn't it?
YOU ARE READING
The Ivy Witch
Paranormal"How do ghosts come to be?" Rosa inquired, exhaling softly into the phone she cradled. The other end went silent for a moment. "That's easy. Injustice." _________ If you asked anyone in the suburbs of Stillwater who Rachel Landis was, they'd tell y...
