The Ascension

Witchcraft_at_Salem_Village.jpg

“Beyond this pathway, she waits still ,the curse’d one, we tried to kill. Unto that house, you dare not creep, for if she finds you , Hell plunders deep”.

Let me paint you a picture. Imagine this. There is a well, a red brick well, it neck is so vastly long , that the people of this earth fear to fall down it. They avoid it. Now let me paint you a different picture, there is a girl, picture her satin black locks hanging over her shoulders, collar bones etched into her sculpt, her piercing eyes , a taboo to the female attribute. Naturally one would never think twice to look back at her. Save her. Everyone these days are so commonly pretty that we often forget to remember the beautiful ones. And so there was Moira. Sitting in a room amongst strangers. She called them strangers, maybe they were not . Dying in a plague of familiar chatter she closed her eyes to escape her reality , and there she saw him, in the dark, awaiting her. His presence was so coherent she could still sense him. Moira spoke to herself, as she painfully observed the crowd that routinely forgot her.

“I feel so naked. Stripped of my privacy, exposed and vulnerable”

The devil’s advocate indulged her ,dowsing his spirits in her loneliness, her descent into depression. Like an inescapable cloud over her figure, he could not be removed, the spirit that constantly haunted her.

She spoke once more.

” It gets deeper. Nobody recognises it , because one must look into my eyes unapologetically to be content enough to read me , be bothered enough to stare into bare soul. The extents to just how damned I feel. Save me. Lift me up from the well, don’t push me down it. Oh the irony of it is now even more intolerable. Save me.

***

Moira deviously chanted on as she continued through her usual walk in the Cammeray Town hall. Evening had struck upon her 15th birthday, a day long over due in her heart and mind as her independence had finally claimed her. On this day her purpose was firm and intention inevitable as the reality of several decaying oak trees and mould infested plantations transformed into rows of the town’s poorly constructed, dingy  cottage houses .The communal bell had tolled, requesting that it was the day’s end. Moira’s jaunty pale legs reluctantly dragged her body home uneager to arrive. She had reached the wooden confines of her house as she was yet again forced to take part in the routinely squalor of the vacuous dinner chitchat that menaced her ears. Today was different.  Moira reluctantly placed her self at the foot of the table, the inhumane size of the hot roasted turkey in the middle created a partition between her and the family.  Distracted by the obscurely placed red speckles of blood tattooed on her bony pale hands. Moira solemnly swore they would never understand why she had done it.  That she was lured by forces beyond her control, seduced by an inexplicably raw attraction to brutality and the contentment of death. Moira deep in thought was interrupted by the familiar temper of her mother’s voice sardonically wearing the grin that mirrored her devious actions earlier this day. Sin plastered on her gaunt little face. Her dark thoughts were once more interrupted by the harsh metal clash of the town square bell.

DING. DING. DING.  This was indeed unusual. The rapid crescendo of the bell tolls demanded the people of Cammeray to commune in the town square. It was dark and  the town’s once desolate heart churned to a beating pace as the families bickered inquisitively in uncertainty eagerly anticipating their Mayor Concord to arrive. Furies of gasps and bruesly fitted faces of horror and shock befitted the town as a figure approached before them.  A myth rather, that had been dispelled and come to life.  This curse’d myth whose head was forcedly shaved bald, she wore proud her disfigured ligament of a shorted arm. Her cheeks wore red with an unnatural substance. Her hands tied behind her body, as if awaiting a punishment, whilst she absorbed the obscenities of the village, empowering her in the face of her timely death.  Her face held apathetic, for she knew her fate.  Whilst humming a familiar tune that only one in the crowd had become of its true meaning.

“Beyond this pathway, she waits still ,the curse’d one, we tried to kill. Unto that house, you dare not creep, for if she finds you , Hell plunders deep”.

And so before the town stood a woman. A curse. A myth . A force. A witch.

The piercing squeal of a woman concluded the fate of the witch. The town soaked in rage as distraught mother clenching a small still figure close to her chest moved to the front of the crowd a trail of red bloodied her dress and the concreted grounds on which she traipsed. Followed by the Concord, the torn mother unclothed the secreted figure as she knelt to the ground at the feet of the witch. It’s young body still, it’s face deprived of life, inhumanly blue, as unevenly lined gashes appeared down it’s body. Dead or Sacrificed. On it’s forehead two long red blood like marks painted a crucifix. The witch murmured “ a gift to the gods, a gift to the devil, mark this holy sacrifice, the both of us” . The witch renounced her body and the dead child as she was roughly tied to a log of wood. Brazen pitch forks and lit torches consumed her body, as her flames ate through the tender flesh that held her body. She didn’t scream in the agonizing torture but lurched into hysterical laughter. “For one to rise , one must die ”. In the midst of the soaring flames. Her eyes searched for the being. Her spirit called for Moira’s. A devilish smile grew onto Moira’s, the rest of her face drew apathetic. She unveiled her bloody hands from her sleeves , aware that the crowd would not even notice. Aware of the crowd that would incorrectly accuse the ‘curse’d witch’ that lay innocent. In the midst of the crowds, a force latched onto Moira’s figure, the sole’s of her blood trodden shoes began levitate like in hauntingly possessed position. The black pupils of her eyes grew larger, inhumanly, sickly looking and blood shot. The squalor of the children around her, unaware of her ascension encircled her figure. The intermediary spirit gave birth to Moira. A sacrosanct between the people and the forces beyond. She would rise.

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