In the cold, lonely cell, with no one but my thoughts for company, with nothing to look at but the dank, mouldy walls and the occasional starving rat scurrying along, I wait for them to come and get me. For them to hammer a spike through my tongue to stop me communicating with the devil and torture a false confession out of my damned mouth. I know what’s coming, and I can’t say I’m exactly terrified either. I’m resigned to my fate, and I’m not afraid of Death. That’s the easy part, dying. It’s the how I’m worried about. Will they burn me? Drown me? Stretch me until my limbs tear off? Surely they’ll want to keep me alive and able to feel pain when they kill me. Maybe they’ll give me a broomstick and throw me off a cliff.
I saw that happen once, it wasn’t pretty. The scummy walls reek of neglect and sorrow, I swear if I listen hard enough I’ll be able to hear the pleading screams of the others. I hear the cries of ‘Witch! Witch!’ from outside, and the sound of jeering and abuse. Yet another innocent being killed. I hear the crackle of the flames, and sigh as the gurgling screams of the dying woman. She’d been in this cell only hours before. I remember the conversation we had.
She’d asked me how I thought they’d do it, and I’d simply answered that I didn’t know. She admitted to me that she was scared, and I nodded and sighed. It was half an hour after I arrived that they took her away. I remember how she’d screamed, and begged me not to forget her. As if I’ll have long to remember.
Still, you never forget the last person you will ever speak to before you die. You can’t forget, or that’s it, you’ve officially lost the plot. I go back to my wondering, and am thinking about how I’m going to stay silent as long as I can when the door opens. It’s time. As I walk out of the cell door into the last room I’ll ever be in, a voice in my head asks: Why me?
I snort and the torturers look at me as though I’m mad. Why me? Why me? WHY ANY OF US?!