My name is Christiana May, The Widow on the Hill. I look out over the people gathered and smell the foul odor of the fire, I know that soon I will die. The crowds have come together to watch this moment. They will cheer and they will mock, some will cry, and others will turn their heads knowing that there is nothing that can be done. But I will go, I will hold my head up and I will not turn away from those that come to watch my final breaths. Though the executioner will tie my hands to the pyre, he cannot hold down my spirit.
The fires lick my toes like playful pups and I feel nothing but relief. For there is no deeper pain than to know that you will die simply because he said he loved you. He whispered promises as he pressed himself against my silky flesh but denied me when the wicked tongues of jealous mouths declared that witchcraft must have been the reason a good man would stray. Then always stray… They always lie.
I stand here looking down at all of you now, and smile a witchy smile.. Yes, you stand there looking ill, your mean wife mocking my name. I watch her eyes and wait for her to see her tower start to crumble. Little does she know that poison laced upon my lips will be my final witchy spell. Now as the roar of fire comes to life my lover too will fall. Hemlock and berry wine, Belladonna to seal the deal.
One last kiss he dared to take, stolen between bars and lies. He could not resist a midnight tryst. I knew this oh so well. Now she’ll take my place as Widow on the Hill.
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