Cathy Masterson can’t wait. 7 hours, till it finally ends. There could be, entirely worse ends. She rubs the slip of paper between the tips of her fingers. 6 hours 59 seconds. Yes, it is very materially here – the slip of paper, ending her future. She had spent all of her today penning farewells that weren’t all that kind. She’d go out guns ablazing, she’d take the esteem and confidence of the community and company of all around her with her; she’d leave them in guilt ridden pieces. Years and years, of toilet rolls she had to clear from her front yard and across her rooftop; years and years of foul names hurled her way as she ambled down the street; years and years of unjust shoved into her face and kindness never ever even a whiff in her direction. The community and company of all around her. Gracing her with only their ridicule and cruelty. The children with their singing of hurtful rhymes; the adults with their disdainful rumors. The muddled witch; the murderous heiress; the one who attacked Mrs. Anderson’s kitten. All the lies, and all the made-up tales. The coats of paint over the layers of paint already under; the countless graffiti she’s had to cover over.

The many jackets and overcoats she’s had to wash over and over; the fragrance of washing powder never overcoming the foul scent of rotten eggs, nor its stain removing properties proving true, when the juices of tomatoes long turned bad mark and mar in spots all over her dresses. Her own cat swipes at her. Leaving litter all over. Can she not ever be loved. Her dog, Sniffles, had literally the snuffles and snuffed over. She hobbles over to the kitchen stove. Drenches tea leaves with hot water. Tea. A soaking of leaves dried. It soothes her nerves. It calms the chatter, and the voices. Cathy Masterson. Cathy Smellsterson. The butcher’s daughter. A witch forgotten. A witch abandoned. Even her own coven finds her too dumb to be with them. Cathy Masterson. Cathy Smellsterson. She claws and she smells, outside and in. She killed the kitten, her own cat a demon. It ate Sniffles. She takes another sip. Jasmine. Her hands wrap around the tea cup made of bone china; her own bones feel brittle. The voices, louder and unkind when she’s excited. She wonders how it’ll happen. She looks to the clock. 5 hours. She places the tea cup on a chipped saucer. Some teenagers had broken in once. Smashed her window pane and let themselves in. Made a mess. Broke her plates. Took all her knives and left them in her mailbox, tipped over. Her couch stuffing scattered, her hip misaligned from their skateboard left in the hallway. She hadn’t gone to the sheriff. They’d only come to arrest her.

She sits on her chair of cane that rocks and it calms her. The old lady in her rockers. She’d taken it all as they dished their meanness, and there’ll only be, 3 hours left to this misery. The voices don’t always shout at her. Sometimes they tell her to check her fingers to make sure that they aren’t broken, to go to the doctor to help her walk better, to sit on her chair and watch the fire. Hadn’t she been, the butt of twice too many jokes; the pariah of almost every festival. She would like too to just watch the lanterns. Babies wailed at her direction. She’d passed strangers and they turned, undoubtedly against her. She’d held her head high for as long as she could, and yet the waves kept on their currents. Finally, it’ll end. She reads the note over and over. 2 hours. She clutches the penned and sealed letters worded with every cross word and rude saying she’s heard throughout the years. She’s the village idiot, child of her father, that madman of that massacre. Yes, she had kept her hood on. The fault’s not hers and the blame’s her burden. There is a reason. She stares at the embers of the fire. She’d stayed awake all through the night watching their dance. The flames licking at logs. She hadn’t slept. She hadn’t known till she turned twenty. She hadn’t known, of what her father had done and been doing. She genuinely had enjoyed digging those holes. It’s a game of extreme hide-and-seek, papa always said. She rocked back and forth in her chair that rocks. She held the letters she wrote close to her chest. Her last words. A retaliation. The embers, still bright. Her last words. Written with the intention to hurt. To shame. To blame. She raised the blood red tea cup to her lips as she took what’s quite possibly her very last ever sip of tea she’ll ever. She set it ever so gently back onto the saucer with its chip that’s rather triangular. A little nick in circular perfection. The voices tell her. An hour to go. Start a fire. Watch them burn. Watch them hurt. It’s their turn. It’s their turn to hurt. She stands and shuffles towards the kitchen, finds the matches and, sets alight the letters meant to inflame.

Perhaps, it’s okay.
She thinks a thought of her own. That there needn’t always be, retaliation.

She rocked back and forth, comfortably in her chair of cane. The tips of her toes warmed by the flames dancing in front of her. She wonders if it’ll hurt. The sheets of paper, turning charred and ashen. Smoke arises. Her eyes water. And the tears she’d never shed throughout the years, flowed warmly down her cheeks. She thinks she hears the cat flap open. She feels licks to her fingers. Quick gentle licks so familiar. Sniffles!

She brings life to her lap. It licks away at her tears. She has been loved.

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