Burn the bitch, they said. Burn the witch, they said. Such a subtle distinction between the words. One letter sets apart the meaning of the entire sentence. The ones who called me a witch, for doing nothing short of something different and “out of place,” were there for the truth. They wanted to know if I was truly guilty of my supposed crime. Perhaps they would mourn me briefly before finding someone new to turn to. Someone who dared to tell them they were wrong.
There was a different story for the ones who said “bitch.” They wanted to see me burn because they could. They would watch with intent as if my trial were a sporting match. My will to live versus the flames and the smoke they emitted. The game, of course, was rigged. It always was.
My family did not call me either. Not that I had a chance to say goodbye, as I was dragged through the screaming crowd to the stake. I fought as they tied me to the pole, not that I knew why, with the rope digging into my skin. I had the false sense of hope that the flames might break the rope and set me free, if it did not also mean that my feet would be entirely burned by then. And who would I run to? The crowd that put me here in the first place? The family that did not bother to save me?
I caught the eyes of my father and mother in the crowd. They knew. They knew the whole time that there was nothing anyone could or would do. My father removed his hat and held it to his chest, where my mother had buried her face. She would still hear my screams. I’d make sure of it. If they wouldn’t listen to me before, I’d make damn sure that they heard me now.
The flame from the torch quickly caught the kindling that surrounded me. The heat waves and smoke blocked out most of the crowd, whose noise grew with the flames. Beyond the pain, I could still hear them.
“Burn the witch!”
“Burn the bitch!”
They would hear me too. I took the pain and made it my voice. The searing pain from the waist down built up into my throat. Tears glazed over my rage-filled eyes and red face. I took the last breath I could take before all I would be able to breathe was smoke. With it, I shrieked. Not in pain. But in anger. I may be burning now. But they would all be burning in hell.
In my charred flesh and smoke-filled lungs, I had proved my innocence. The other girls would sometimes prove theirs with water, replacing the oxygen they so desperately needed as their heads were held under water. In truth, I’m glad they chose fire for me. For the one inside of me that had been sparking up for so long had finally left my body. The sulfuric smell that emitted from my corpse would be seared into their noses the same way my shriek would never leave their ears. It must have been the loudest sound any of them had heard in a while. The kind of shriek you will hear when someone innocent is burned at the stake is enough to make them shut up and listen. They must have. Because when the smoke cleared, when the truth came out, it was quiet.
