Term: Witch
Part of Speech: Noun
Definition: 1. a person, usually female, who possesses black magic and is believed to have dealings with the devil. To be burned at the stake.
2. an ugly and wicked woman
3. A person affected by witchcraft that is burned at the stake, drowned, or pressed to death
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“All men, women, and children accused of witchcraft will be sent to the Burn Room…”
The TV roared through the house as Sophia, my younger sister, turned the volume up. As the man's fist came crashing down on the podium, his light brown hair flopped up and down with the movement. I flinched each time he banged the podium. His purpose was obvious; he wanted to eliminate the witches.
I’d heard numerous stories at school; rumors about what is in the Burn Room. People, including the Agency, refer to it as the Burn Room, so people say they burn witches to death. Others believe that they hang witches, like the gallows in 1692. Some have even said that they cut off the witch’s head. In truth, its name is self-explanatory. They burn witches. But, I had never seen the Burn Room so I couldn’t be sure.
“Everyone, listen to me!” the Agency representative shouted, striking his fist. “Witches are deadly! They will destroy the human race. This species will take over Amerius and rule us. The Agency will put an end to this. Our solution is the Burn Room.” His face turned bright pink as he shouted more angry words to the audience.
Witches are an abomination and dangerous to all of man-kind!” the voice rang confidently. “They deserve to die! This is for the safety of our children and our other loved ones. The Wiccans associate themselves with the devil so they will go to Hell! The occultists have sinned and will die by fire, water, and earth.” He meant witches were to be burned, drowned, and pressed to death, all of which are very cruel and painful ways to die. The crowd behind the man cheered, pumping their fists into the air.
Each night, there would be a program where an Agency representative would come on and accuse witches. It was nothing new, but Sophia watched it religiously. Each night, I’d ask her why she’d watch it, and each night I’d receive the same answer.
“I find it interesting. It’s not all that bad, Veronica,” Sophia said. “Don’t be so bitter.”
“It’s just that you’re a witch. They want to send people like you to die. Don’t you get it?”
“Well, I hate being a witch,” Sophia snapped. She avoided my gaze. I blinked hard, keeping back bitter tears. How could she say that? It’s in her blood! It’s in my blood. It was in a whole line of women’s blood. A matriarchal line. My heart began to pound, anger building up.
“I—I…” I was about to say something that I probably would have regretted. My face grew warm and my fingers tingled. The adrenaline began combining with the frustration. Normally, the conversation would end with our mother coming into the room. She was strict about us talking about witchcraft and the Agency.
My father was not as strict, as he would usually dump himself into a reclining chair, flipping on the sports channel. He avoided the news channels because they always had the same things on and he was sick of hearing the same stuff he’d hear at work. He was a lawyer, but not for trying witches. Instead, he stuck with petty criminals. His being a lawyer kept us from being suspicious. Many trusted him and never had a thought about us possibly being witches, the most hated race in Amerius.
**
That night, my family of six crowded around the mahogany dinner table my grandfather made. The table had intricate details of birds, plants, and flowers up and down the legs. The carvings were symbols for something, but my grandmother had yet to tell me. It matched perfectly with the olive green walls. They were complimented by pictures and paintings in golden frames.
We passed the bowl of spaghetti around, scooping it onto our plates. At first, we ate in silence. Then we all engaged in casual conversation. How was your day at school? Did you learn something? Did you do something interesting? How’s that one friend of yours? I’d smile, thinking about what I could be doing. I’d wonder what it’d be like if I had a talent to show off. Every night I’d go to bed, thinking about what my purpose in life would be. As cheesy as it sounds, it was true. I’m sure lots of people think about their purpose. I don’t have artistic talent. I’m clumsy at sports, always tripping over my two left feet. My music talent is not existent. I was nothing and no one.
Suddenly, I heard a strange noise. It was faint, but Sophia heard it too when she looked up from her food with an odd expression. She knit her eyebrows together, pursing her lips. The noise became annoying. I thought it was the smoke alarm going off signaling it was low on battery. The beeps had nearly no pauses in between. They grew progressively louder. The hair on my arms began to stand up at the thought of what it meant. I waited for the sound to stop, but it kept droning on and on.
Beep! Beep! Beep!
Kaboom!
The kitchen exploded into flames. The door burst open, slamming against the wall, smoke billowing out the room. The ground vibrated from the force of the explosion. Everyone jumped. Forks and knives clattered onto the plates, sending spurts of marinara sauce into the air. Everyone’s eyes were set on the back room where there was an easy escape route to the outside. But it wasn’t good enough.
My father shepherded us to a back room. The smoke surrounded us as there was another boom! My mother shrieked, lunging for my hand. My sister was torn away from me. I cupped my hands over my mouth, yelling Sophia’s name. Sheer fright seized me and I couldn’t move. The picture frames and mirrors rattled loudly as there was a third boom. There were flashes of orange as bombs erupted from different entry points in the house.
My grandfather shouted as loud as he could over the cacophony of sounds. The smoke went down into his lungs, causing him to wheeze and hack. Men barked commands, heavy boots stomping the floor, the chinking of clips being loaded into their weapons. I swiped at the smoke, but it was no use. Soon, the smoke began to lift. There was a small clearing in the smoke, and I could see my sister and grandfather. Their mouths barely moved, and I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Within a split second, they disappeared.
I heard other confused, muffled shouts. I was going to yell back so my parents would know I was still alive, but the words were stuck in my throat. My heart pounded inside my chest, and it seemed like it was going to pop out of my ribcage. Eventually, the commotion became too loud for me, making it hard to separate all the sounds. But, one thing I heard was glass shattering. I tripped on overturned objects, cutting my hand on some glass. I winced, but kept moving. The blood flowed freely, making my palm wet with crimson liquid. I balled my hand into a fist, keeping pressure on wound. I shuffled to my feet, heading towards the back of my home.
I reached the backroom, grasping my mother’s hand. My father held onto my grandmother, keeping her fragile body behind him. He pulled my mother and me behind him, too. He flung his arms out wide, covering the three of us, protecting us from harm’s way. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t help much. My father didn’t have powers, no special abilities.
Guards swarmed like an angry hive of bees, cornering us. Their guns were pointed at us and I found myself staring at the barrel of a gun. The guards sneered, showing their teeth. The leader’s eyes were furious, full of hate and disgust. A vein poked out on the leader’s neck, threatening to burst. I didn’t realize it until now, but tears were streaming down my face. My hands shook uncontrollably and my face was covered in sweat. I was going to die.
“Put your hands up!” the leader growled, pointing his gun at us. “The Hazelwood family is convicted of witchcraft,” the leader roared. I cowered in fear, terrified of what would happen. “Put your hands in the air, sir,” he said through gritted teeth. He probably thought about other derogatory names he could call us.
“No!” my father spat. The leader’s finger twitched on the trigger. He desperately wanted to pull it, ending our lives in an instant. I could tell by the evil glare in his eye and vein bulging in his neck. Next thing I knew, I was covering my ears in hopes of muffling the horrid sound of a gun going off. I closed my eyes tightly wanting it all to go away, only to be knocked to the side. My mother dragged me out of the room. The guards were lying on the ground or on their knees, trying to collect themselves. She’d used her powers, something I’d rarely seen her do.
I cast my eyes downward to see a pool of blood. My stomach dropped. Next to that pool of hot, red blood, was my father lying face down, his arms at an awkward angle. I shrieked at the top of my lungs, attempting to break away to try and save him. My mother’s grip was too strong. “NO!” More tears cascaded down my face. They stained my sooty cheeks. “Dad, wake up! Please! Get up! Daddy!” But my father would not get up.
A guard shoved my grandmother against the wall. “Stop it!” I yelled, knowing it wouldn’t do any good. My hand tugged at my dirty hair in worry and dread. My throat started burning from the ash drifting through the air. I took in a deep breath, inhaling debris and smoke. Instantly, my nostrils seared as all the debris traveled down my throat and into my lungs.
Wood splintered, threatening to snap in two. The flames roared, making me stop and stare. As part of the wall caved inward, I couldn’t help but be mesmerized. It only took me a split second to realize that this was real.
“Veronica!” my mother snapped, jerking my hand. Immediately, I came back to reality. “Stop it!” She flicked her wrist, more guards hitting the wall and floor. She yanked me to another room. My grandparents’ room. She pushed me towards the glass door heading to the backyard. A beam started falling, only to be stopped by my mother’s telekinesis. The flames fell, hitting my skin. I shrieked as my skin burned. The skin turned bright pink and began to blister. “Go. Find your sister and escape. Do you understand me? I love you, Veronica.”
I swallowed my tears and hiccupped, not wanting to leave my mother. I hesitated, looking back at the fire taking over the room. It attacked my grandmother’s piano, then the bench, and then the bed. It was a beast with razor sharp canines eating away at the walls and pictures. It engulfed the plants on the floor, gnawed at the rug, ate away at my grandfather's chair.
More tears threatened to roll down my face as the flames claimed my grandfather’s chair. It held so many memories of my childhood and much more. I wiped my face with my non-bloody hand. My breathing was ragged, but slowed as I calmed down.
Then I nodded, knowing it was for the best. Somewhere in my mind, I told myself I’d see her again someday, no matter what. I didn’t care if I had to travel half way across the world and break her out of the Agency.
“Yes, Mommy,” I whispered, feeling like a small child again. My mother was crying too. The tears left smudges on her grimy cheeks. She hugged me hastily before letting me go.
I fumbled for the door handle. Pulling it open and slamming it shut, I sprinted onto our lush, green lawn. My sneakered feet sunk into the damp grass, creating soft squishing noises.
“Veronica! Veronica!” a familiar voice shouted. It was my sister’s. I whirled around in a complete one eighty, seeing her and my grandfather sprinting down the street. Sophia and my grandfather were running from the flames. The same ones that were destroying my beautiful home.
I followed. But I lost them. They were going too fast for me and they were too far ahead.
A hand grabbed me by the collar, drawing me back to the burning house. I yelped, trying to hit my attacker. It was the leading guard, smirking and cackling like a hyena.
“Ah, has the poor witchy lost her family?” he said, laughing louder. I kicked, punched, and bit him, but it had no effect. He dragged me back to the house, shoving me inside, into a room that wasn’t engulfed in flames. “Hurry. This house will collapse soon,” he told the other guards. I’d given up fighting him, letting out weak, pitiful yells, hardly trying to pull away.
The wood cracked, making me grimace. The flames grew hotter, nipping at my skin. I screamed before being slapped by the team leader. Around the corner of a room, I noticed my mother being pinned down by a guard. Adrenaline shot up through my veins, giving me a new found strength. I tried to break away once again. The guard had a tight grip on me. I held onto his wrist with my free hand, jerking at it in hopes of getting him to let go. It only caused me more physical pain.
My heart twisted into knots.
“No!” I shrieked once more, my voice cracking. My throat went dry, my lungs burned. I covered my mouth, coughing. As I opened my mouth to scream, a hand, holding a cloth, covered my mouth and nose. I couldn’t help but struggle and take in a deep breath. My head started to feel heavy, yet dizzy as if I’d gotten off a spinning ride at the fair. My eyelids drooped shut and my legs wobbled.
Suddenly, the world melted away.
A few snippets of being in a van, entering a tall building, and being tossed somewhere, were some of the things I caught. There were clips of sound I remember, people talking about a room or a cell. Nothing else. My memory was a blur. It was nearly impossible to separate fantasy from reality.
When I opened my eyes again, I was in a room. I closely examined the white room. I assessed my injuries, which turned out to be minor. I scratched at the rough material of my uniform. My clothes were white. Turning on my heels, I glanced at where I’d just gotten up. The cot was white. Everything was white.
I paced around, wondering what had happened and where I was. Then, it occurred to me. I froze again, terror in my mind and heart. It was enough to bring me to tears. I was at the Agency, home of the notorious witch killer, the Burn Room.