She never imagined her death would be like this, that she would die this way. She imagined death would feel cold instead of a consuming heat, but she never imagined burning to death. But then again, she never imagined that she would be one of the unlucky women who were deemed witches and punished for it. She wasn't a witch but with their constant and unmerciful torturing, she had no choice but to submit to their claims. How else was she to stop the pain? They deemed her a witch and they called her unholy, but they didn't understand. How could they? They couldn't see her pain when the voices appeared, they couldn't understand why she hid in he shadows from her fears and paranoia. They saw her symptoms but didn't care to see what caused them to appear. She was blamed when her father had raped her all those years ago. She was blamed for dislocating herself from the cruel society that judged her. As she stared at their wicked and distorted faces, she didn't feel rage. She stared at them, at their horrid smiles, but felt pity instead. She felt free from the shackles chaining her to pain and fear, and she smiled before letting the fire consume her. She had screamed, not of pain but, for release from this disastrous world.
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Short Stories
Короткий рассказThese are some short stories that I write when I'm bored. They are from certain prompts that I find and I am the one that draws the small pictures for it.
