The Next Great Martyr
The atmosphere is unusually solid. Somehow, it feels more real than normal. I remember this feeling. As the last feeling. The feeling of Cold. The feeling of Danger. The feeling of Death (approaching.)
In the back woods of her house she is more alone than ever. She can see the thick, leaden smoke rise from her chimney and float upwards into the ashy sky. Like a spirit departing. In the midst of the trees she sits. We rustle autumn leaves through the grass, through her long tangled hair. The air chills her bones, as we stir around her. Uneasily, ominously. We're trying to warn her. But she doesn't get it. She feels so...alive. As is expected in the final moments of one's life. I once was her. Poor old, empty soul of mine. There's no sympathy for the long forgotten.
A drop of icy rain falls onto her cheek. Or is it a tear? I can't tell.
She opens her book. "Double, double, toil and trouble. Fire burn, and cauldron bubble." She quotes, giggling ch/eerily. Her pale fingers toy with a couple of twigs. She weaves them absentmindedly, singing softly to herself. She takes a match to it.
She opens her other book. Her spell book. Silly little witch...Play with fire and you're bound to get burnt. They'll be using those sticks to build your stake...sooner or later. To humanity you'll be the next great martyr. To us, you're just another apparition in the wind.
A/N: Please leave a review if you liked. If you didn't feel free to critique. Thank you.