Chapter 5
Witch’s Kitchen
For some reason, I’m upright when I open my eyes. I have no idea how my legs can keep me up with how exhausted I am, but miraculously, they do.
I’m also in the process of opening the door. My muscles started the movement, but now that I’m actually regaining control over my own limbs, I freeze as I push the door. Walking into this room, or whatever it is, would be following the rules of whoever is running this show. I don’t want to follow the rules. I want them to know that I don’t care about the paintings I’ve burned. Everything I’ve seen so far, everything I’ve experience just proves how awful art truly is.
Nothing good could come out of such wretched pictures.
But a force seems to be pushing me and I can’t fight it.
I open the door.
Everybody in the room automatically stares at me.
Over a dozen women are working around a marmite.
The word witch automatically pops in my head like a big flashing light. Some of the women here look young and not threatening, but there is a couple of those women that look ancient, that look like the kind of person you’d cast to play the evil witch in your movie that would haunt your dreams days after seeing it.
I am unable to move. And they all keep staring at me.
“Who are you?” one of the ancient witches asks me. She’s standing behind a desk, covered with bones, and a human skull, and knives and a sword, with a book in her hands. There is absolutely nothing comforting about this picture.
“Me… Melody,” I stutter. Like with every other painting, I am not prepared for this. I have a few scenarios running in my head—sacrifices, hexing, burning, bathing in my blood, though I don’t really see the appeal since I’m not a virgin. I don’t know what witches really do, and I really don’t know what witches in paintings really do. But if things go the way they have been going so far, I can bet it’s not pleasant.
“I do not care about your name, simpleton, I want to know what you are doing here!” the witch shouts, making everyone hyperaware of me. If they had turned their gaze away from me before, now they’re all definitely staring at me.
And that’s enough to have me bursting. “I don’t know! I have no idea! I just woke up in front of your door, that’s all! I have no clue what I’m doing here!” And it’s the truth. I know why I’m thrown here—because this is a painting and apparently I have to suffer. But I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing in this painting.
It’s not exactly true though. I know what I have to do. I have to die. That’s what I’m doing here—dying, isn’t it? And I don’t want to.
“This isn’t real! None of this is!” I suddenly shout, surprising my audience.
“Excuse me?” one of the witches asks in disbelief.
“You’re not real,” I yell pointing at her. “You’re a god damn painting! You don’t exist. You’re just a tool in this fucking curse against me. You’re nothing.”
I’ve had enough of this. There is no point in all of this none-sense. Whatever that stupid boy wants me to realize, it’s not going to happen. All of this has only proven to me how awful art is and it’s made me hate the paintings that much more.
I’d burn them, over and over again if I had the chance!
“DID YOU HEAR THAT? I’D BURN IT ALL AGAIN!” I shout to the sky, hoping that the fucking little boy can hear me.
When I look back at the room, and the woman around me, I worry. They’re looking at me funny. I don’t like it.
“Get her heart. I want it for this potion,” one of the ancient witches says.
Two younger ones step forward and I back away. “NO! No, no, no, no!” I shake my head and my hands, “No one’s getting my heart. No one’s killing me! I’m not going to stand here useless this time! ENOUGH!”
Right after I scream that last word though I feel a blow behind my head. I stumble forward and fall on my knees.
“Get her!” one witch yells and then she laughs, the way only a stereotypical scary witch can laugh.
The two young witches grab my arms and two more help them to tug me towards the table with the human skull on it. “LET GO OF ME!” I shout but it’s useless. All the witches are laughing now, and the oldest of them, the one that had been mixing the content of the marmite comes forward while they lay me on the table.
And I just scream and scream and scream, until she stabs me in the chest.
YOU ARE READING
Life in Paintings
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