Witch

Hello readers, it has been a long time since I’ve posted anything on this website, and it’ll probably be another long period of time before I post something again. For the last 3 months I’ve been in a writer’s block. I can’t get myself to come up with a story or poem idea and when one arrives I can’t seem to put it into words. Hopefully I’ll be out of it soon because my urge to write is rising to the surface, but my hands inability to come up with something is driving me insane. Luckily I was forced to write for my AP English class a narrative in the style of the book “The Things They Carried” by Tim O’Brien. This is that story, hopefully you enjoy it and I’ll see you soon. (Note: names in the story have been changed for the sake of privacy).

Carol was a witch. She was short and stubby with a mole that sat on the tip of her nose and a red scar that ran from the mole down to her lip. The only thing she was missing to complete a description of a witch was green skin, which I believe she covered using a spell.

Now I can not blame my reactions on Carol alone, for she had a superior, like a witch god, and many bats that did her every desire, plus the additional green leaves that strengthened her magic. But for the sake of the story, I will blame Reese Brosnan’s emotions as a nine year old on the witch herself.

I tend to block this time period out of my life. As a nine-year old dancing with people twice your age you tend to get the most critiques, but I was told that this is better than getting none at all, because that means they still care, but the actual content of the words tends to supersede the good intentions of that phrase. 

Another phrase I hear a lot is sticks and stones may break my bones but words can never hurt me. I have come to realize that whoever made up this statement did not appreciate language as a whole. Words hurt more. I almost broke my neck when I was thirteen. I was on bed rest for a week and then in a neck brace for a month. I still can feel the pain of the words that occurred 7 years ago better than the pain of my neck from three years ago. 

Carol would look into her bowl full of all of her ingredients and words would appear. She would give me these words for what seemed like her own enjoyment. Stupid. Useless. Can you do anything right? Trash. Are you dumb? You will never make it in life. She tried to pass it off as “tough love”-but these words are drilled into my brain and eat away at it slowly.

There was a knot in my throat. And there still is. My tongue in circles, twisting and winding up so nothing could be said. The witch cast a spell on me to stand still. My heart was beating and my breathing was swelling but my hands and my legs were numb. All I wanted to do was run. Or cry. Why couldn’t I cry and make her feel guilty about what she just said to me? Nobody helped me. Could they not see that my ears were being fried by words and that I was going to need weekly therapy from expanding anxiety? Could they not see any self-worth that I had left ran out the door because a witch disguised as a ballet teacher told me I’ll never make it in life? 

I’ll never make it in life. 

Oh, how words can be such a motivator yet leave such a distasteful feeling in your throat. 

I hate witches.