“A child who is not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth.”
* * *
“A Witch!”
“Burn her!”
The sounds of the once friendly villagers ring in my ears. My family. They showered me in hot stones and took daggers to my hair, painting my face and limbs in colours unimaginable. I never knew how long I could run for until that day. It’s been weeks. I’ve started to lose count and eventually, all feeling in my arms. I dragged my feet across the snowy ground, leaving trails of red splotches in my wake. Every move I make feels like walking on scalding coal, my eyelashes coated in icicles and the tips of my fingers turning into a rich purple.
I try to close my eyes for just a moment, the sting of cracking fires jolts me awake. What have I done to deserve this? It feels like only yesterday I was playing in the streets of my warm village, stuffing my face with pastries from the bakery next door, sitting around the fireplace with my mother as she sang me to sleep. I always thought of her as some sort of siren, the creatures that lure sailors into the sea with their voices. But even then, she was more ethereal, even if only to me. Suddenly, memories come flooding as I stumble on to the ground, No longer do I feel the cold of the snowy carpet below me.
“Grab her!”
“She’s not to be trusted!”
Shaking my head as tears run down my face, the temperature makes my throat hoarse and I can barely make a sound. All I can hear is the sound of my mother’s screaming as fire burns around her. The world goes quiet, my vision is pitch black.
The sound of shoes tapping against a wooden floor plays around me, people talking in a language I can’t understand. I hear as the footsteps get closer to me and scurry off like mice. There’s a mature sounding voice that reprimands the mice, which I believe were children. My arms won’t move and my neck is stiff like a door. I squint my eyes open struggling with how heavy they are. “Requiescat puella, vultu ipsius longissima huc iter habuit.”
A chorus of “awh’s” erupts from the children sat by a rocking chair with an old lady in it. She shushes them, getting a song of little giggles in return. Maybe she brought me here? Surely not. I was miles away from any neighbouring village. Not that I knew of anyway. I’ve been seeing the same plain of snow for an eternity. When did I actually pass out?
“Lorem, nunc habitant licet. Im certo amaret in occursum omnium vestrum semel shes plene evigilat.”
The children darted to look at me, shutting my eyes in a panic. Did they notice? How will they understand me if I speak, or how will I understand them?
