Plans go awry sometimes, that’s the simplest way to put it. Your intentions may be fine and dandy, but the repercussions of your actions can be disastrous. People could die, lives could get ruined, and families could get torn apart. So think before you act, because you can kill someone — or even yourself — in the long run.

Trust me. I know from firsthand experience.

I was having the time of my life.

Shrieks and screams ripped their way out of my throat in an attempt to scare off Charles, my second suitor of the month. I twisted and turned, and was thankfully able to contort my body into the oddest and most grotesque of positions. My heart-shaped lips curled upwards, revealing my soot-covered teeth; the green of my eyes was invisible, seeing as my eyes were rolled into the back of their sockets; and my short, silken black hair was riddled with the mice bones I’d ordered my servant to bring me the night before. Charles was looking adequately revolted (I’m pretty sure the cow dung I’d artfully concealed in my hair had something to do with it), so I was positive I’d escape his clutches.

I heard a stifled laugh—more of a choke, actually—and looked around (still twisting and turning, mind you) for the source of it. I had to squint into the darkness of the doorway to see Edward, my brother, hidden in the shadows, grinning so widely it was a wonder his face wasn’t split in two.

I had to suppress a grin when I saw that.

I was having fun, but the same could not be said for Father, a chubby, red-faced man. An irate expression marred his face as he barked, “The Devil had possessed the child! Eve, stop this nonsense at once!” To emphasize his last word, he slapped me. Hard. So hard, in fact, that my nose started dripping blood onto my white blouse, staining it crimson. But I just laughed.

In the deepest recesses of my mind, I hoped and prayed for Charles to revoke his offer of marriage. I wanted him to think I was a lunatic, and consequently leave me alone and find himself another wife, more capable of cooking and bearing children than I was.

My wishes came true.

As soon as Charles saw me laughing, he roughly shook Father’s hand and hastily flew out of the room. And although I couldn’t help but shudder when I saw the ominous glare he directed towards me, I raised my arms in victory.

However, before Father could do anything, I rushed towards the present Charles had given me—a caged dove—and set it free, a satisfied expression fixated on my face. As soon as I saw it soaring in the sky, I let out a sigh and allowed myself to feel the pain of the slap Father had given me. The pain didn’t matter though, Charles was gone, and I was as free as the dove which was now soaring high in the sky.

“I’m free. I’m free. Freefreefreefreefree,” I whispered to myself, feeling giddy and relieved all at once.

“Not for long, you’re not!” Father roared, and rushed towards me. Once more, he slapped me, this time on the right cheek. I cried out in pain, and wondered how he stayed so strong, what with his crippled legs (apparently, he was born with a limp and all). More blood gushed out of my nose, and my father yelled in triumph, “Aha! The Devil has left her body through the blood of her nose!” And with that, he half-ran, half-limped out of the house after Charles, screaming, “Come back! Come back!”

After seeing how desperate Father was to secure an engagement between Charles and myself, I guessed that if I married him, Father would have a prodigious increase in his financial affairs.

All the more reason not to marry Charles, I thought.

Edward, who had evidently been by the door the whole time, stepped into the room—probably to make fun of me—but a second after he made his first step towards me, Charles came back. I let out a fake-sounding wail of joy and rushed towards him, making sure I sprayed him with blood and mice bones. As soon as I was within touching distance of him, I did a jig Edward had taught me, and accidently-on-purpose kicked Charles’ shin.

Much to my amusement, Charles actually physically recoiled when I touched him. He left soon after, muttering under his breath about curses and witches.

Both Father and I watched as the door slammed behind Charles—me in triumph, Father in angry consternation—and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Edward retreat from the darkness of the doorway, undetected by my father.

Once Father realized what I’d done (he’s a bit of a slow man), he let out a terrifying roar and chased me around our living room. “Come back here, you little wretch! Just wait ‘till I get my hands on you!”

He did, eventually. He gave me an awful beating, and by the time he was finished, he looked akin to a bull who’d just been angered by his matador.

“What in the Devil’s name has possessed you to do such a thing?” he wheezed.

“I don’t want to bear children,” I replied defiantly. Or at least, as defiantly as I could reply, seeing as the punch he’d delivered to my jaw had rendered me incapable of speaking properly.

Father’s mouth began twitching, and suddenly, he let out a bark of laughter, and sat down on the floor next to me. “You really are something else,” he chortled. “You don’t want to bear children.” He cackled some more, and I took it as an opportunity to go to my room.

Once I got there, Edward was waiting for me; he wanted to hear the full story, and I didn’t disappoint him. We giggled for hours about how Father’s expression had turned into one of abject horror when Charles left.

Life was good.

Two days later, I was lying on the floor with Edward, and we were both wondering aloud why the ceiling wasn’t falling down upon us. I thought it was because the walls supported it, but Edward, who had quite an imagination, was positive that invisible faeries held it up. We both jumped when the door slammed open, revealing Mother, whose face was splotchy with rage.

“What happened?” Edward asked. “Has our farmhand killed yet another cow?”

She shook her head, so Edward and I continued arguing about walls and faeries.

“Do you want to know what happened?” Mother spat at me, her voice shaking with anger.

“Not particularly, no,” I responded nonchalantly. “But if you feel it’s important for me to know, then by all means, go ahead and tell me. No one’s stopping you.”

A sigh escaped Mother’s throat. She looked upwards and raised her hands in a silent prayer and whispered, “Lord, how could I have given birth to such a child?” all of a sudden, her stance changed and she glowered at me. “You!” she screamed. “You’ve been accused of witchcraft! How could you? You’ve shamed us all, you… you fool!”

I could only stare at her, and my mouth opened and closed of its own accord.

I honestly expected her to slap me, but she just said coldly, “Your trial’s tomorrow afternoon. Look your best.”

Edward looked over at me as soon as Mother stormed out of the room. I could tell he expected me to roll my eyes and smirk, but instead, I gave a whimper of fear and an expression of abject horror marred my face.

The seriousness of my situation had dawned on me: I was being accused of witchcraft. Me!—Daughter of a woman who accused people of witchcraft on a daily basis! An esteemed member of the church! I tried to undermine the importance of my situation, but try as I might, I couldn’t. I knew I was innocent, but what I didn’t know was if that’s what I’d be proven to be.

It was the day of my trial, and understandably, I was a nervous wreck.

I was sitting on a stiff bench that hurt my back, and I looked out at the faces of all the people who’d come to witness my trial. They were all people I knew, people who’d come to see my downfall. Father looked both furious and embarrassed (he’d never really cared for me), while Mother was pale with fright. Edward was squashed between them, on a bench that smelled like wet wood, obviously trying not to cry.

And it was all I could do not to do the same.

Actually, I was surprised at how calm I outwardly appeared. Although I was feeling so many conflicting emotions, I wasn’t shaking, I wasn’t crying, and most importantly, I wasn’t unconscious. My hair was now free of mice bones, but was a mess, seeing as I’d ran my hand through it numerous times. Mother caught my eye, and I briefly quirked my lips at her in what was meant to be a reassuring smile. I stared at Edward to see how he was holding up, but he quickly looked away.

The jury was currently discussing my fate, and my heart felt like it was trying to break a world record.

Once more, I looked over at Edward for comfort, and was glad to see him give me a tight smile.

I didn’t return it.

My trial had gone horribly, and we all knew it.

I was stupid to have expected a fair trial, but I did. I’d had no lawyer, no chance to defend myself, and no one to plead my innocence. Questions and accusations had been fired at me with rapid speed. “Are you a witch? We know you are! Confess, already! Why are you putting everybody through so much stress? Confess, Witch! Repent your sins! Admit you worship the devil!”

Oh, God. Here they come.

The jury walked into the room, and each and every one of the members pierced me with a glare of pure, searing hatred.

Not exactly a comforting bunch, now are they?

One of the jury members, who I knew to be an unfeeling old man, stood up and cleared his throat. “You!” he declared, staring at me as if I was the most repulsive thing on the face of this earth, “shall hang, Witch!”

My heart stopped beating. My hands started shaking. My jaw dropped. I felt like I was being pricked up and down by hundreds of darning needles. An acrid taste burned its way up my esophagus, and I tried not to vomit. How could I have been proven guilty? I was innocent! Innocent!

A burly man dragged me away to a prison cell. I was later informed by the jury member who’d convicted me that I’d be hung with three other “witches.”

I’ve always been fascinated by death.

It’s such a peculiar thing, isn't it? It happens to our grandparents and our friends’ cousins. Our dogs and cats and farm animals all meet their maker. Aunts and uncles die, but none of us believe—or want to believe—that one day the Grim Reaper will come and knock on our door. None of us believe that one day, death will secure us as its latest prey.

What is death, anyway? Is it the departing of our soul to somewhere else; somewhere better? Or somewhere worse? Is it when there’s no connection at all between our functioning mind and our uncooperative body?

I didn’t know, but I was about to find out.

After months of imprisonment, I was on my way to the gallows. Sarah Baker, Rachel Smith, and Jennifer Ward, three other girls convicted of witchcraft, accompanied me. The shackles that restricted our already-limited movement forced us to limp our way through. All four of us were emaciated, depressed, and very panicky.

Today was the day. I was going to meet my maker.

As silly as this sounds, when my gaze landed on Edward, he was the person I felt sorry for the most (apart from myself, of course). I was pretty sure that home was hell for him. There was no doubt in my mind that all Mother did was mope, and all Father did was drink.

He was deep in thought, and Mother nudged him back to reality. We made eye contact.

He actually recoiled when he saw me.

I couldn’t blame him. I knew what I looked like. Starved. Emaciated. Almost dead. My shackles clanked as I limped past him, and I deliberately avoided his calculating look.

My heart was in my throat. Spots danced before my eyes. I faltered for a second, and stumbled in front of the dozens of people who’d come to watch our hanging. A strand of my straw-like hair fell to my face, and I raised a shaking hand to brush it out of my field of vision.

I walked towards the menacingly ugly gallows. Tears welled up in my eyes, but I blinked furiously until they went away.

I don’t want to die like this. God, please save me.

During my trial, everyone had heard me yelling things like, “I swear in front of God that I’m innocent! Please!” and, “I am not a witch!” but they paid me no heed. Their bloodlust was being satisfied, and that was all that mattered to them. I found myself wondering why I didn’t admit to being a witch. If I’d only plead guilty, I’d have been kept alive to identify other witches.

After all, it takes one to know one.

My bare feet clanked as they made contact with the cold wood of the gallows’ stairs. I flinched briefly as a splinter got imbedded into my heel, but I kept on walking.

The combined sounds of our steps made a steady rhythm. The metallic clanking of our shackles, accompanied by our sobs of fear and anguish were the tune of the song we were playing. The excited shouts of the people who’d come to watch were its lyrics. We made up Hell’s choir.

Before I knew it, the executioner was fastening the noose around Sarah’s neck. And then Rachel’s. And then Jennifer’s. And then, finally, it was my turn.

I looked up and saw a thick noose right above my head. The executioner tied it around my neck. It felt foreign and uninviting. It was already suffocating and choking me. I wanted to take it off.

I looked down at the noose, ignoring the way it burned my neck, and noticed that it looked even uglier when its vile brown contrasted starkly with my pale neck. The angle at which it hung made me feel sick to my stomach.

The executioner walked off the gallows and towards the lever that would drop us to our doom. A dove soared high in the sky, and upon seeing it, I shed tears of pain.

“No! I confess! I’m a witch! I don’t want to die!”

I realized—a little too late—who had said those condemning words.

It was me.

With the permission of the judge, who’d come to watch our hanging, the executioner unfastened the noose from around my neck, and I was roughly escorted to a dark, dank, and dirty jail cell which was already occupied by seven “witches.”

Fresh tears fell from my eyes when I realized that my family’s visits to me would be limited—that is, if they were allowed to visit me at all.

But at the moment, nothing mattered.

I would live. My life would be worthless, but I would live.

Death would have to find itself another victim.

(A/N): Okay, so a) This was an English project that I fell in love with, and decided to post.

b) I've changed my username (because seriously, how juvenile is Mizz-Insane?)

c) We've still got exams (gah, they can be a pain in the you-know-where. Who knew they could be so stressfull?), but I'm working on chapter fourteen of Fire and Ice, so as soon as it's finished and beta'd -- thank the wonderful Vamperetta and the awesome angels and effects! -- I'll post it )

Thanks for reading, y'all! Don't forget to review!

-Sarah