This is a short piece originally written as a script for my LAMDA Grade 4 exam in March 2012.
When The Clock Strikes Twelve
It was a cold day when we were accused of witchcraft. It was midwinter, and with no heating our house was freezing. We were trying to cook dinner when the witch hunters came. Voices of accusation swarmed in on us from all sides. At first I did not understand what was happening. We were not witches, just lost girls in the wake of our mother's death. I just could not understand.
“Do you hear that? They are calling us witches. How dare they turn on us? Our friends and our neighbors.” I turned to face my sister.
“If mum were here… they'd act different. They respected her.”
“They pitied her, but fear us. Her daughters born on All Hallows Eve.” I countered sharply.
“But they can't blame us for being born. Can they?”
“No. This is fear, not blame. They are going to kill us for their fear. Condemned as witches.” Anger was building inside of me.
“No! They can't kill us. They can't! We haven't done anything wrong. We're not witches!” My sister cried hysterically.
They saw us as witches though. They saw our words as hexes, or curses, the Devil's spells. We were found guilty without trial. Their minds were already decided.
“Guilty. What do we do? What are we going to do?” My sister begged me.
“Nothing. There's nothing we can do. They see what they believe they see. Their minds are made up.” I stared blankly at our prison walls.
“But we aren't witches. They have to know that. How can they not know that?” she cried desperately.
“I don't know. They just don't. Our time is up. Only death awaits us now.”
It was now that they separated us. My sister was knelt ready for execution. I looked across at her, waiting for the axe to fall or the rope to tighten around her neck. Time passed slowly. In the end I could not stand aside and watch. My hand reached for her, my body pushing against the guards restraining me.
“No!” I screamed.
I was too late. My sister's small body slumped forward lifelessly. She was dead. The guards relaxed now, allowing me to run to her. It was beside her that I knelt as the second noose was pulled tight around my neck. In moments, I too would be dead. Killed by superstition.
“This death is wrong, but it comes anyway.” I mutter softly before the hangman's knot restricts my airways and soon I am no more.
Mistreated. Mistaken. Our lives have been taken. No more can they accuse. No more can they persecute. This is the witch's curse. It is a witch's death, but now we find our freedom.
Witches we are not.
“Do you hear that? They are calling us witches. How dare they turn on us? Our friends and our neighbors.” I turned to face my sister.
“If mum were here… they'd act different. They respected her.”
“They pitied her, but fear us. Her daughters born on All Hallows Eve.” I countered sharply.
“But they can't blame us for being born. Can they?”
“No. This is fear, not blame. They are going to kill us for their fear. Condemned as witches.” Anger was building inside of me.
“No! They can't kill us. They can't! We haven't done anything wrong. We're not witches!” My sister cried hysterically.
They saw us as witches though. They saw our words as hexes, or curses, the Devil's spells. We were found guilty without trial. Their minds were already decided.
“Guilty. What do we do? What are we going to do?” My sister begged me.
“Nothing. There's nothing we can do. They see what they believe they see. Their minds are made up.” I stared blankly at our prison walls.
“But we aren't witches. They have to know that. How can they not know that?” she cried desperately.
“I don't know. They just don't. Our time is up. Only death awaits us now.”
It was now that they separated us. My sister was knelt ready for execution. I looked across at her, waiting for the axe to fall or the rope to tighten around her neck. Time passed slowly. In the end I could not stand aside and watch. My hand reached for her, my body pushing against the guards restraining me.
“No!” I screamed.
I was too late. My sister's small body slumped forward lifelessly. She was dead. The guards relaxed now, allowing me to run to her. It was beside her that I knelt as the second noose was pulled tight around my neck. In moments, I too would be dead. Killed by superstition.
“This death is wrong, but it comes anyway.” I mutter softly before the hangman's knot restricts my airways and soon I am no more.
Mistreated. Mistaken. Our lives have been taken. No more can they accuse. No more can they persecute. This is the witch's curse. It is a witch's death, but now we find our freedom.
Witches we are not.