#erysimumdeitas solos

[favouriteworstnightmarexo-blog]

Pray for Me

"Whore"

"Devil"

"Slut"

"Witch"

Each and every insult casually rolls off of the tips of the tongues of the masses, violently ringing in my ears as I'm led in the line of a procession of 6 women. They hang their heads as if in shame, treading as though they carry the weight of the world on their hunched shoulders. Back and forth the crowd, dressed in rags and old word clothing, jostle, desperately wanting to get a good view.. but of what? At first I don't understand why all of these people are gathered, but then the procession ahead comes to a grinding halt and I am forced to look up at the most gruesome sight I have ever laid eyes upon. Up ahead stands a hangman's scaffold, proud and overbearing against the backdrop of the glorious ruby red sky.

“Move” shouts a rough, unfriendly voice in my ear as I feel the force of a boot kick against the backs of my knees to spur me into a forwards motion. It is then as my arms jolt out in front of me to steady myself that I notice and feel the heaviness of the iron shackles at my wrists. I notice the way mothers protectively recoil from my swaying body, pulling their children in close as though I am ridden with plague. It is then than I tremble uncontrollably with the realisation that the angry faces and accusatory fingers are all being pointed at me. It is then that I realise that I am not merely a spectator but that I am part of the procession being lead to their frightful end, and all of these people have gathered to see me die.

“This is a mistake. I haven’t done anything. I haven’t” I scream at the top of my lungs, desperate for someone to hear me and end this farce. Every instinct in my body is telling me to run, to escape and save myself, but all at once there is a harsh palm against the base of my spine, ruthlessly pushing me onwards until I am forced to stand at the foot of the uneven steps leading to the scaffold. I am rooted to the spot, forlorn and fumbling with the shackles in the naive hope that I might be able to miraculously free myself from this disastrous fate. With bated breath I watch the figures of the condemned women before me taking their designated places beneath the noose set to end their existence. Each one is secured around their slender throats as they snivel and wail, muttering pitiful pleas of innocence and forgiveness while the executioners dutifully Tighten the ropes. Then it’s as if time stops and all eyes fall on me, expectant and impatiently waiting for me to take up my ‘rightful’ place. I can’t. I physically can’t bring myself to move. Already I feel dead inside. Numb. It’s as if my heart has suddenly stopped and my brain has given up on me, Amethyst the lost cause. There is no way out of this - the notion hits me as hard as a ton of bricks, leaving me heaving for air as the tears begin to stream down my cheeks like a river that has burst its banks. I can’t die. I’m too young to die. What about my family? What about grandmother? She’ll have no one left. I don’t even know why I’m here nor what I’ve done. What did I do that was so bad to warrant my death?

A forceful hand secures itself around the chain binding my shackles, impatiently dragging me up the steps despite the flailing of my legs and the twisting of my upper body. “Please, please. Stop this. I can’t die. I don’t want to die. Let me go. You’ve made a mistake.” I cry so loud my throat begins to burn whilst my stomach knots uncontrollably as I am yanked towards the swaying noose like a doll that can be thrown every which way possible. All at once I’m held by the shoulders, gagging at the stale scent of ale and sweat coming off of those greedy to earn their coin when I’m hoisted onto the stool at my feet. I sway back and forth, once again trying to stabilise myself though I am internally panicking at the prospect of snapping my own neck from stumbling. My shoulders are gripped so hard that I wince, convinced there will be bruises left by the roughness of the grip that surrenders me to the hangman as he secures a hand around my throat before bringing the noose over my head. Without a second thought for the life about to be snatched away, he tightens the rope and steps back to cast a proud eye over the distraught faces of us women lined up before him. I grimace as his eyes meet mine, the coins in his pocket clashing while he flashes me a sickening grin to display his yellowing teeth. It’s a look that says ‘I can’t wait till it’s your turn’. His heavy boots cause the floorboards of the scaffold to creak as he strolls back towards the first girl, ignoring her wailing as he kicks the stool from beneath her to pull the rope taut. There are jeers and whistles from the crowd. I close my eyes at the sound of the rope creaking, desperately trying to eradicate images of her frail body twisting against the force of her fall whilst she gasps for her last final breaths. My tears begin to flow while my body shivers against the easterly wind whipping across the courtyard, my ears aching with the choked last whispers of the women beside me. I know nothing of them, not their names nor their crime. I know not where they are from nor their age nor occupation and yet still I empathise with them. I feel their hearts bleed for the lives they will never have. I ache desperately for the love they will never share. I know at once that they are like me, unfairly subjected to the terrors and prejudices of a cruel, cruel world. We are one in the same.

The creaking grows louder and louder until I am finally the last one standing. I hear the heavy intakes of breath in the crowd, the suspense building by the second, and it’s then that I decide to open my eyes, to take one last look at the world. And then it all becomes clear. In the crowd stands @VileZealot, and at his hip is a girl the spitting image of me. A girl with my freckles and my curls, with my blue eyes and my full mouth, but I can tell from the wicked glint in her eye that she is not me. I can tell from the way her arms possessively encircle his waist that she is in fact Elizabeth Howe - the ancestor that has haunted my adolescence - and that it is her place upon this scaffold that I have taken. I am paying for her wrongs, and she is taking my place in the arms of the man that I love. She is stealing my love and my life, leaving me to pay the price for the suffering she has caused. She glares at me and, even when he dips his head to press his mouth firmly against hers, she is watching me. She is revelling in the sight of me at death’s door for she knows she has won as the stool is kicked from beneath me and I descend into a thick blanket of darkness...

━ ❖ ━

I wake with a start, sitting bolt upright in my bed whilst my shirt sticks to my spine from the sweat coating my skin. I reach for my lamp, squinting violently as the brightness illuminates the four walls of my bedroom. Upon my bedside table stands a vase containing roses in full bloom brought for me by.. Sage. My brows crease in confusion.

He was in my dream.

With her.

And I was...

“No. It can’t have been real. Of course it can’t. It was just a dream, Amethyst” I tell myself in a scolding manner, half laughing of the ridiculousness of the paranoia racing through me. It was a dream. That’s all. A nightmare like all the others. Simply something to forget.

I climb from my bed and stumble towards the bathroom, desperately trying to avoid the creaking floorboards and disturbing my grandmother’s sleep. The last thing I need is her asking questions I don’t wish to answer. I step inside the bathroom and fumble for the light switch, Sleepily rubbing my eyes with the backs of my hands as the light flickers into action overhead. I bend over the basin to run the tap, splashing my face with ice cold water as if to cleanse myself of the dark thoughts tormenting my mind and my heart. Straightening my petite frame, I elicit a groan at the creaking of my spine before suddenly releasing a shrill, animalistic scream. All at once I clutch at my mouth with my hands, recoiling with a shiver while my breathing becomes frantic and I fall against the edge of the bath.

There on the bathroom mirror inscribed in blood is four little words. It’s a message. A warning.

It’s a promise;

“I’m coming for you.”

#erysimumdeitas solos

[favouriteworstnightmarexo-blog]

☩ Deliciously Pagan ☩ "Amethyst, my darling. What on earth has happened?" Whimpered the worried tones of my grandma as she got up from her perch upon the porch as quickly as her rickety old bones would allow to rush to my aid. My rucksack hung heavily from one shoulder, my hands clutching at my ribs beneath the torn remnants of my T-shirt as my side throbbed in agony. I had no doubt I would I have multiple bruises there later. From my lip and my nose streamed a quaint river of blood, the skin of my plump lower lip split whilst a scratch upon my forehead continued to sting beneath tousled and unruly golden curls. Still she gazed at me expectantly whilst fussing and guiding me to the nearest seat, unperturbed by my lack of a response as I hissed through gritted teeth and manoeuvred myself into a seated position. As far as I was concerned that day had been nothing but a normal day, or at least as normal as it could be for a girl forever associated with a blasphemous bloodline in a righteous town of superstitious witch hunters. From the very get go I'd been the girl that mothers would shield their children from, even in preschool. They all knew the stories or rather the tales that were spun through the centuries between the founding fathers of Salem to taint my bloodline and bring disdain upon all those who share my family name. And it worked. Even now. In the 21st century. Still people deluded themselves with thoughts of witches lurking throughout the town, watching and waiting to curse those that were unlucky enough to cross them. Apparently burning 100s of innocents during the 1600s hadn't been enough to purge the town of its 'evil'. I'd slammed the door to my locker shut amidst the ringing of the school bell and the hustle and bustle of students moving to their next classes when I suddenly felt the heavy warmth of a person's breath fanning across my neck. Suddenly, and with an ear drum shattering bang, a hand landed either side of me upon the lockers and thus I became acutely aware of not one but multiple persons encircling me. Hugging my textbooks closer to my chest I sucked in a steadying breath through gritted teeth as one of my assailants finally put an end to the eery silence that had descended upon the corridor. "We hear you witches are supposed to be able to protect yourselves. Funny, we hear your great-great-great grandmother didn't do a very good job." From behind I could feel the twirling of my hair roughly around an index finger and the warmth of several bodies closing in on me. I wanted to mutter a response, to bite back and give them what-for and call them idiots for believing such ridiculous superstitions but I knew that no matter how much I fought back.. their plans for me would only increase in devilment. "Let's see if you can do better.." Before I could even scream and cry out for help my hair had been tightly wound around the fist of one of the predators behind me to send sharp pains shooting through my scalp whilst their laughter rang in my ears and caused my blood to boil beneath the surface of porcelain skin. With a clatter my books fell to the floor, my arms outstretched with my palms firmly fixed against the cool surface of the lockers to soften the impact of my forehead behind smashed against them. I was almost certain I'd begin to see stars spinning in front of me as my knees wobbled with a sudden bout of dizziness, my hair becoming matted against my temple with blood. It was always like this. Every since day one of High School. Sort of like 'new girl' syndrome. I was the one with the target on my back. I was their prey. It didn't matter that I'd never done anything to them, or that I'd purposely gone out of my way to stay clear of them and live my adolescence without giving their mothers reason to publicly name me a she-devil a tarnish my reputation forever. It didn't matter that I was innocent. They didn't care. It was all just a game to them, like the sort you'd find at a child's party. A piñata - that's what I was to them. An object to be punched and kicked and tormented until I could take no more. With my defeat would come their prize: an increase in fame and popularity for having had the strength and the wiles to bring down yet another Moreau girl. No doubt with that in mind as their punches continued to rein down upon my stomach and my ribs, knocking the wind out of me entirely, their faces contorted into devilish, heinous grins whilst their shrill laughter of victory and enjoyment reverberated back and forth throughout the hallway. That's when it happened... With all the energy I had left stored in my body I released a loud screeching scream of "STOP!" Which echoed in the silence whilst every inch of my petite frame trembled with a newfound surge of power. It was like nothing I had ever experienced before. Every nerve tingled as if they were sending shockwaves of static electricity throughout my being prior to my lungs becoming heavy with sudden and desperate inhalations of air. The punching and the kicking had halted to make way for the flinging of the bodies of each of the five girls in different directions. 1 against the ceiling. 2 against the lockers. 2 against the doors at either end of the hallway. From one second to the next, my surroundings were plunged into darkness as the lifts flickered on and off above, my ears filled with the screeching sound of metal coming into contact with yet more metal as each of the 265 lockers frantically opened and closed. With a heavy movement of my chest I released the air that had been trapped within my lungs and suddenly everything went quiet. A deafening silence. Upon returning home, broken and battered, I told my grandma every detail of today's events but to my surprise their was little shock or disbelief in her eyes. I'd half hoped that she would laugh at me, or at least tell me I was imagining things. But she didn't, she didn't say anything, and thus I asked her the one thing that been bothering me as I'd hobbled home; "You always told me that the powers our ancestors burned for wasn't real..." I swallowed. Hard. My voice trembling as she placed her bony hand on mine and said those two little words that would change my life forever... "I lied." ☩ Deliciously Pagan ☩

#ErysimumDeitas solos

[favouriteworstnightmarexo-blog]

☩  Deliciously Pagan ☩

“Here lies Elizabeth Moreau. Mother. Daughter. Wife. Earth has one gentle soul less. Heaven has one special angel more.”

Delicate digits glide across the engraved marble headstone positioned before me with the soft pads of my fingertips tracing the line of each curve and indentation. Every word of the touching obituary is spoken in a hushed, barely audible whisper amidst the sound of larking magpies in the sky above, my mind subconsciously reciting the spoken words as though I hadn’t already memorized them a thousand times. In reality I knew each word off by heart and had done so ever since my first visit to my mother’s grave at the meagre age of 6. I’d slipped out of class that day, overwhelmed by the never ending jeering and teasing from my peers or the constant tugging on my tightly curled sandy locks. I was always the different child. I’d always come to believe it was because I was the child with freckles, or the child with curly hair instead of straight, glossy locks. The girl whose family couldn’t afford the latest toys. The girl whose shoes were always scuffed or who’s tights would always tear. The girl who had never had a mother. I was always just different; always the odd one out.

I’d hidden behind the equipment shed on the school playground and waited until the rest of my class had been ushered inside by our oblivious early years teacher before hotfooting it towards the wire fencing that marked the boundary of the school grounds. Earlier in the year I’d spotted a couple of the older kids crawling through a gap in the wire to escape out onto the footpath through the woods that lead to the churchyard and I’d figured that if they could do it, I could too. Rather genius if you ask me. Getting through the fence had been a doddle, even if my dress had torn and given me a moments fright when I had imagined the consequences of that small indiscretion. I’d dragged my bag through the fencing and scuttled off down the track, wary of each and every sound that seemed to echo around me. At that age everything had seemed so much larger and scarier, but it had been exciting. My first [real] adventure. I’d felt empowered and brave, like the real life Little Red Riding Hood only I’d desperately crossed all of my tiny fingers and toes in the hope that the Big Bad Wolf wouldn’t make an unwanted appearance. Thankfully he didn’t, and I managed to make it to the church yard on the outskirts of town without a scrape. Eventually I’d found my mother’s grave, identifying it by the bouquet of heathers, daffodils, and tulips that I’d witnessed my grandmother meticulously preparing earlier. My grandmother had said I’d been there for 5 or more hours until she’d found me, my tiny frame curled into a shivering ball with my backpack hugged to my chest on top of the grave before she’d carried me away whilst I’d mumbled “I wanted to be with mummy”.

15 years later and still, every day, I walk that same footpath through the woods to lay a new handpicked bouquet of wild flowers at the base of my mother’s headstone.  Today is perhaps more significant than any other day. Today is June 19th – My 21st birthday and the anniversary of my mother’s death. She’d died shortly after labour from complications and excessive bleeding. Her life had ended before she’d had a chance to hold her first and only child, before holding me. I never got to meet my mother, or feel the warmth of my mother’s love. All I felt was the pain of an irreparable hole in my heart and the wet due of grass dampening my jeans as I knelt to arrange her flowers day in, day out come rain or shine. I’d been passed into the care of my father and grandmother, though my father had kept his distance throughout the years no doubt viewing me as a reminder of the love that he lost, of the love that was took from him. I often found myself wondering if he blamed me. In fact, I was convinced of it. Why wouldn’t he? If she’d never given birth to me she’d still be alive. I blamed me.

But still today holds further significance, marking not one but two deaths.

One this day in 1692 was the death of my ancestor or, rather, her execution. Beside my mother lies the relatively unmarked (save for the single glowing candle of remembrance) grave of her namesake. Elizabeth Howe. Elizabeth had lead a relatively simple life up until 1692, moving from Yorkshire, England to my home – The Puritan community of Salem, Massachusetts – before marrying James Howe in 1658 with whom she had six children. Together they lived in deeply pious society, in a world in which tales of the devil and indoctrination were strife. The fight against the devil had been viewed as an individual religious responsibility, a responsibility that resulted in the death of over 200 people for practicing the Devil’s magic. "I could never afflict a dog as Good Howe afflicts me." Spoke a daughter of the Perley family at the trial of my ancestor. The girl – 10 at the time of her accusations- complained of being pricked by pins and sometimes fell into fits, her accusations so strange at the time that not even her own parents had believed her claims. That is, until they took her to a doctor who told them he had no doubt she was “under an evil hand”. Records of the trial detail that the girls condition continued for two or three years before she pined away to skin and bone and ended her sorrowful life but by Elizabeth had already been accused of the inflictions of yet more girls; Mercy Lewis, Mary Walcott, Ann Putnam Jr, Abigail Williams, and Mary Warren. As a result, Elizabeth was hanged at Gallows Hill along with her sister in-law, Rebecca Nurse, Sarah Good, Sarah Wildes, and Susanna Martin.

To be the child of a convicted or reputed witch was inherently dangerous. In some respects, I believe it still is. Times have changed, and people move on, but still Salem remains a Mecca for those who call themselves Wiccans. Still in the shadows lurks the ancestors of those that condemned mine to death, perversely seeking to finish the hunt for blood that their forefathers started. I see them watching me, waiting for me to do something that would warrant the asking of questions. They watch all of my family, the blood in our veins a stark reminder of our heritage and the condemnation of innocents. I am different, though not because my cheeks are freckled or because my hair is curly, but because they know. Because they all know that I am a granddaughter of the witches they weren’t able to burn.

#ErysimumDeitas solos