Enchanted Hell: Freya’s Life

I’ve never always wanted to be an outcast. I had dreams when I was a child…when I was wanted. Now, look at me: I’m a fox demon; I look 17 years old, live off the streets, and have clothes like a damned hooker. That’s what many take me for. A hooker. But I’m not…and I’m here to tell you of my past. I shall relive the moments. So if you can’t stand the heat, get out of Hell, because that’s where the hell we’re going.

Many question why I’m not with my cult of Foxes. They never liked me nor loved me. My mother was…ugh, never mind. Don’t let me get into that. My mother sent me off and yelled that I was a witchcraft worker and that I put spells upon my other siblings. It wasn’t true. I would never…

But that was all her. She never liked me. Being born on the Sixth of the Sixth month of the Sixth day never suited her well. Well, too bad. I was born June 6th, on a Saturday. So get over it.

But anyway…back to my cult. I was always watching the children play…as my mother pushed me aside. My father was never around… later they told me he was head of everything and one day they took his head and placed it ahead of the whole village. The children all gave me looks, as if I didn’t belong. I was sure I didn’t, because I really didn’t have the sign of the clan…a white patch of skin on the left arm. Instead, I had one greenish blue eye and one sandy colored one. Oh yes, that was the talk of the town. They said that the Devil might have consumed me. Mainly because that’s all they ever say. The devil this, the devil that, the devil slept with my wife, let’s kill her.

It was all about the Devil.

I guess that’s because the years were still young, and everyone believed in God; even us foxes. Our pilgrimage from London to the newfound colonies really didn’t make a difference; our luck seemed to follow us everywhere. We had harsh, cold winters, blazing summers, and just across the river, Native Americans watched our every move. Many of us died of starvation…others died of sicknesses we had no medication for. We went through terrible, terrible times. Most of the time they blamed me for it. They blamed me when their children died, they blamed me when they got sick, they blamed me when they were lost and their crops failed. They blamed me when the Native Americans tried to attack our village. They blamed me.

But of course, none of it hurt more than the slaps I received from my bint of a mother. She slapped me when I tried to take some food, when I tried to serve my brothers and sisters, and even when I tried to do some work (she thought I would poison or put something on the food). She made me do nothing, and made me feel useless. She portrayed no qualities of a mother…

By the time I was 13, I noticed this all. I watched the world zoom by me. The time weaved its way around me. And I hated it. Oh, how I wanted to make peace within our village…how I wanted to do something with my life, how I wanted to help the Native Americans…Indians…with their lives…I wanted to move out of this colony, and that was that. I made up my mind. I packed my sack and left at daybreak.

I walked along the river, and up towards a different colony, where I met eyes with a handsome young man with a raven on his shoulder. But ravens, of course, were bad omens…so I walked passed that milk boy without a word, but how I wanted to say something!

But boys weren’t my only love. I had two loves: women and men.

That’s another reason why…I was believed to be a witch. Women were only supposed to love men, and men, women. No exceptions.

At age 16, my birthday coming in a few days, I worked in a shop. Women weren’t supposed to, but the shop owner desperately needed help—he was getting too old and blind. He didn’t seem to notice that I had a foxtail growing behind me, and claws instead of hands; either that or he had an open mind—which was rare. Rarity has such beauty in its words…

One day he asked me to deliver a package to the Van Deks residence. They lived at least four miles west of here, and I guessed I could do it. I should have rethought that. It was way too far for my legs to carry. It took me two days to get there, and on the eve of my 17th birthday, a woodland prowler kidnapped me. I remember the pale face in the moonlight drowning into a haze…and I felt the piercing of the tissue in my neck, and the blood being sucked out of my veins. I felt that that was the end; that I would live no more. And I wished for him to kill me then and there. But he didn’t…instead; he gave me everlasting life, and this I still loathe.

I was dropped onto the ground, and he turned away. I caught a glimpse of his light blue eyes and silvery-white hair once more, when he turned to look at me again before leaving. He was a handsome one…if only, if only I could get back on my legs and embrace him. But I couldn’t, he had sucked the life out of me, and I felt my body dying…and my soul reviving and full of revenge. My family, the people in my old village, everyone. They will all pay…

Once I had all my strength together, I stood right back up. My heart was set on the dial of kill. And kill I shall.