Katelyn and The Witch Party

Chapter 3: Running Away

In Grade five, Katelyn had sat on her bed as the pain in her heart intensified. No matter how hard she had tried, she had not been able to forget what others said about her and she had not come to terms with it, had not let it set in, because they would think that she accepted it. If she had tried to defend herself, however, others would not listen, but would adamantly protest her, and she was too vested, so affected, that she could not talk calmly when they kept resisting her truth. She closed her eyes, feeling the salty sting of the tears against her eyelids. She had to talk to them, that was certain, but their response would always be the same, and she could not accept it without surrendering some of herself, and losing the last shred of hope she had left. The problem was that she had not known the truth herself at the time.

There was a rush inside her, an anger, and when she was not careful, it would consume her and she would lose control of herself. She had tried to keep silent but they gave that a name and her silence had failed. She had tried to tell them, to get them to understand, but they did not listen and then she was uncontrolled and dangerous. She had regretted saying anything at all, but she doubted that they would remember. 

When she looked back, she wondered, if they had not used her hesitation against her, but she did not know what year they had picked up the knowledge of what she was. She had not paid attention to their reactions back when she did not even know the truth herself. If she had hid her emotions, she was presenting mixed emotions, which were dishonest. They would rather she had forgotten her feelings entirely—how could she otherwise with their words? They had not said that was what they wanted. No, in their hearts they had wanted her to be authentic, to show herself, but they did not know how it affected her and tore her apart. They had insulted her character, though they said they told the truth.

She knew what they would do with her, but she had not known back then, not that she had ever told them. Would my parents act differently because I am their daughter? She doubted it. The teachers would not care. At the time, she had known it would not go well because of the connotation of some people's words and how they thought she would do something she would not. They had wanted her to tell them that she felt scared, too, but how could she be honest when she could not trust them? Her heart would not let her. 

She had risen to the floor. She had to be more than her emotions, had to get something done, but it did not matter to her. She had needed some reassurance to keep going, but there was nowhere to turn. They had been the ones who were supposed to help, but they could not, for they would never understand, as hard as they had tried and as much as they had thought they wanted to. Maybe, she had considered, they care, but that only made it worse, preventing her from getting the courage to just let go of all the cares.

Even now, she wished she could just have the courage like the blonde girl in Kindergarten to resist them and maybe even to go beyond to fight them. She had walked to the door. Her parents would be angry with her if she did anything and they had always subjected her to some ruthless babysitter. Her parents, the babysitters—they had all felt the same, believed the same sort of things, even if they did not think that they did. Sure, sometimes they had been at odds and had seemed to disagree more than they agreed. Opening the door, she had crept down the dark hallway to the staircase. It had been late at night, and the moonlight had glittered through the high window and down the carpeted staircase. At the ground, she had slinked a few steps further, grabbed her black ballet flats, and slid the latch on the outside door, before pushing it open and once outside flinging it quietly shut.

She had breathed in the cold, calm air, feeling it surround her in a strangely comforting torrent, almost like the pain inside her. The wind had rustled through her medium length brown hair and her thin scarlet dress. It had carried her forwards, down the rocky steps, across the driveway, and into the street, however far she dared to go. The further she had walked, the less she had wanted to turn back, but the more the raging wind had bit at her tender skin and chilled her through her fine garment. She had shivered, trembling in the blistering cold. She had not wanted to turn back, but even she had, by then she had been lost. The streetlights had shined like little stars leading across a narrow heaven, but she did not have the skills to read them, and they were far from her, too cold for comfort.