Witchcraft

Prologue

Hi

loneliness is scary and damaging and so i wrote a character who is sad and lonely just like me

i hope u like it

Prologue

The clock moves as slowly as it does every single day, every single night. The couch faces the large and intricate stone fireplace, and on the couch I sit. I have made a fire because it is October and here in Alaska, October is as cold as winter. I stare at the clock that is laying on the fireplace's mantel, and I do not think. I zone out to nothingness because there is nothing at all worth thinking about. I watch the hours pass by without a thought in my mind. This is a usual routine for me during most days. There is nothing for me to do. I have given up entertaining myself as much as I had used to so desperately attempt. Nothing works. I am so tired of trying.

I am twenty-six, I have been alone for seventeen years.

But tonight, I will not be alone.

With the windows open, I can hear them, the screams and shouts of the hunters who think they are so clever to play their games. My death is a game to them, and ironically, I've come to enjoy the act of playing just as much as they.

It is not as though they can kill me, I've tried to die by more than just a gunshot. Drowning In the bathtub, hanging,  I once tried to set myself on fire with a pack of matches I had found in the kitchen drawer. It burned horrifically, I fell to the ground, only to wake up with not a burn on my skin, though the traumatic memory of the pain it inflicted was etched into my consciousness. I sometimes dream about it at night. It has been so long since I have slept without a dream to scare me.

I'm not new to the act of suicide, but it seems, despite it all, that death is an entirely foreign thing that I will never grasp the concept of.

I wait eagerly for the hunters to arrive. They always end up speaking to me, and as usual, I am attracted to the words they say. Any words spoken to me is like a gift, whether it be an insult, or a heartless warning that I'm about to be shot in a very excruciating form.

I do not care that I am their victim, so long as they find me, and they greet me like they do.

"Judas Sloan." One of them will always say my name. I rarely think of my own name, and to hear someone remind me that yes, that is what I am to be called, is as peculiar as it is my own obsession.

Sometimes I hide in the house, so they will call my name over and over, taunting me to come out. They know I am here; they know there is nowhere for me to go. They are sure I have no weapon on myself to hurt them, because I have never tried to hurt them before. Little do they know; I own my father's gun, along with several bullets, but I have no reason to hurt them. Were I to be a threat to them, they might be too scared to come back and then what meaning would I have?

None. I would have no meaning whatsoever.

I sometimes lie to myself and say my purpose is for the entertainment of others, though my own life lacks any sort of amusement, I bring these hunters a day full of excitement. My death gives them satisfaction, and though it is morbid, I have concluded that morbidity is justifiable when there are no consequences.

Fortunately for Barlow, the town sees my death and suffering as a contest, and so I will too.

Who will be the one who hurts me this time? Who will be the lucky winner who barrels a bullet into my head? It is so exhilarating, that I forget it is an insult. I have forgotten that a long time ago.

I hear a creak come from outside. Something or someone has stepped on the stairs to the front porch. I could hear their footsteps slowly creeping up. It is a hunter; I think to myself. It is time.

I stand and face the door. I do not feel like hiding this time, instead, I want to see the man who kills me. I want another face to add to my memory of limited faces.

The front door slowly opens, and a figure slips through. I wait for my name to be said, I wait for them to say anything at all. But they say nothing, and instead I am greeted with a bullet to the eye, as my body slumps to the floor.