Death of a Witch

Death of a Witch

By: Lady Lolita

It was only just recently that I found out that I may be a witch. My family kept it from me for fear of alarming me for no reason. Apparently, my whole family is made up of witches and warlocks, but not everyone ends up getting their powers.

If you’ve got the power, then you were born with it. It unlocks during the fourteenth and fifteenth years of your life. By the time you’re fifteen you should have all the powers you’re going to get, but that doesn’t mean that you can’t become stronger. But, there’s also no guarantee that you’re going to get powers just because your family has them. Some people go their entire lives without any powers, in fact that’s the majority of the world.

I cannot stand it anymore, though. I’m fifteen and I haven’t gotten any powers and while that’s no different from my friends, it’s not the same. My family expects me to be a witch and have these amazing powers. Apparently, among the witches my parents are the top dogs. The whole family always has been. No wonder certain kids at school snubbed me. They were witches and jealous. Well, I doubt they have to be jealous, because I don’t think that I’m magical.

I hate to have to live up to these expectations, because I can’t live up to them. I wish that I did have powers, though. I’d create a hole and crawl in there to die. I don’t want powers, but at the same time I want them, because I need to please my parents.

For a moment, my eyes shift to the silver letter opener on my desk. Witches can be killed many different ways, you know, as I’ve found out recently. Not just by burning or drowning. Just like regular people, we can be killed simply by having wounds that lose a large amount of blood or strangulation or suffocation or anything like that.

I pick up the letter opener, it’s nice and sharp. Silently, I get up and go to lock my door, then come back and sit down on my bed, looking once more at the letter opener. I put it to my wrist and then change my mind. Instead, I put it to my neck right at the jugular. I take a moment to say a silent prayer. Yes, witches can have faith in higher beings as well. Sometimes it’s the unnamed god that Christian’s believe in and other times it’s goddesses or other gods. For me, it’s the Christian god. I tell him that I’m sorry and that I know he isn’t supposed to condone suicide, but that he also isn’t supposed to condone witchcraft, so maybe I’m damned either way. Anyway, I hope that he can find it in his heart to forgive me for anything that I’ve done or haven’t yet done.

My eyes snap open as I stab my jugular with the sharp, knife-like letter opener and blood spurts out of the wound, against the wall and nearly to the ceiling. I have trouble breathing and begin to wish that I hadn’t done this. I try to call out, but I find that I’m unable to speak. I just make a strange gurgling sound as the darkness closes in, already. Am I fainting or dying? I think I’m dying…