By S. F. Brooke
I walked the halls of my colonial house; it is a gated house. So, all of the angry people were screaming outside of my house, using anything to get in. I walked up towards my window. I saw my child part of the mob, it hurt me to see him like that but then again. I gave him up for a reason. I smiled outside of the window, I proceeded to tie the rope to my railing, knowing my meek body wouldn’t stammer the strength of it. Before I knew it, I had felt a sudden pressure in my shoulder, then a pain. Agonizing pain. I looked to see my window was shattered, and I had an arrow through my shoulder. I groaned and silently wept to the feeling and sight of it. A few moments went by, and she put the noose around her neck, and climbed the railing. “This is it,” she said sweetly. The gates had opened, and the angry people had opened the doors. But they found the witch dead. With writing on the walls, a curse. It scared them to the bone. Only she, the friendly witch could tell them what the curse was; or even if it was a curse.
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