I wish I was back on the Mayflower. Months spent sick as a dog are infinitely better than what I woke up to this morning. Anything would have been better than what I woke up to this morning.
I woke up in a cold cell. With shackles around my ankles. I'm filthy and bruised. Blood crusts my skin where I've been cut and tortured. Thirst rages in the back of my throat and hunger grips my stomach. I can feel fever begin to creep through my blood, its clawing fingers trying to weaken me even further.
But I'd rather die from the fever.
The other option is unthinkable.
My hands are shaking, smearing the words on the page. I know they let me write, not because it's a small comfort they're kind enough to leave me, but because they hope I will write down my confession.
I am not a witch.
I am not a witch, but it doesn't matter.
It's only a matter of time before I join the others on the pyre.
This version of myself, Amalie, she's German. She's from a small village in the diocese of Trier. In the past year, she has watched fifteen people from her village condemned of and burned for the crime and sin of witchcraft. None of those people were witches. No more than she herself is one.
Her only crime was knowing that brews of elderberry and mallow-root would help to calm the lung sickness her young nephew suffers from.
Well...that, and being hated by her sister's husband.
She's been in this cell for a little less than a fortnight. She's been at the negligible mercy of the bailiff and local priest. Her family has not tried to visit her. They've not tried to save her. Part of her knows they are just afraid of sharing her fate, but that doesn't mean I can forgive them.
We both know it was her brother-in-law who accused her. I know her father supported his claims.
The amount of pain she has suffered is unbelievable.
As for me? I'm as stuck here as Amalie. I can't stop my eyes from blurring with tears, even though Amalie knows that will only bring her tormenters pleasure. All I can do is sleep and pray that I will wake up to a happier life.
It's the first time I've actually wanted to be shot into a different century.
YOU ARE READING
Old Soul Syndrome |ONC 2020|
Ficción históricaIt's impossible to be two people at once. Unless you're Abby Kilken. At 27, Abby's life hasn't exactly been all she would have hoped. That college diploma wasn't all it was cracked up to be, and she spends most of her time regretting all that time s...
