“Awakened”
“Witcccchhh!”
Amarelle awoke screaming, the sound so high pitched and pitiful it cleared the very darkness from her unhinged mind.
Her mental clarity had partially returned thanks-be to a disturbing dream about clues for the future. Her blue eyes darted around unfamiliar surroundings until she glimpsed a tattered dirty image of herself in the darkened window. One hand was curled tightly into a fist. She felt a stabbing, throbbing pain emanating from it. She looked down at her left hand and slowly unfurled her fingers to reveal the contents which she gripped so tightly.
Inside the clenched fist of Amarelle’s left hand was a red thorny rose. She had squeezed the flower so hard it had punctured her palm. Blood droplets landed on her bare feet then trickled like tiny streams onto the floor boards.
Amarelle stared morosely at the rose’s squashed red petals and watched curiously as crimson droplets of blood trailed toward the floor. She was transfixed by the scarlet colors.
So entranced was Amarelle by the colors of red, that she had failed to noticed a large unwieldy figure who accompanied her in the room. He stomped toward her and backhanded her mercilessly about the face. Stunned, ears ringing, Amarelle gaped at the looming figure of the Preacher. Memories assaulted her throbbing brain like flashes of lightening.
She suddenly remembered how she’d wished for death; in fact she’d willed it to be so. She preferred the thought of death over living with guilt ridden conscience. The truth of what she’d done – rather what she’d been tortured into doing to Nell, was unforgivable.
Nell had often warned her about the folly of vanity but she had not understood what it meant to be vane. Now, Amarelle understood what type of undoing one could succumb to as a result of another’s jealousy being inflicted upon them.
That is how the women of the congregation had captured Amarelle. They had worked upon her vanity by praising her colorful clothing with superb even stitching and finely embroidered decorations. Amarelle made her own clothing and filled with pride at the compliments her attire garnered her.
Nell, ‘Ole Ma,’ had taught her the fine arts of stitchery. Arts which she; Amarelle had naturally excelled at. Nell had taught her so many arts after taking her in and raising her like a daughter. ‘Ole Ma,’ was the only mother Amarelle had ever known; her own Mother passing from the world shortly after bringing her into it. Amarelle’s father had never recovered from the loss. Instead, he’d buried himself in the ‘drink’ barely able to care for himself, little own for a blonde haired infant daughter.
Nell had discovered Amarelle wandering unsupervised in the woods. She was filthy, alone and hardly four years of age. Her father so drunk, he didn’t know or care that she’d been missing.
“Glad to be rid of the little wench,” he’d slurred when Nell had offered to take the little girl off his hands and raise her.
Nell was only sixteen at the time. She was most certainly not an ‘ole Ma,’ but she did have an old soul. ‘Ole Ma,’ was a term of endearment Amarelle only used when referring to Nell in the presence of her sister-friend Vesta; an orphan girl who had the propensity and aptitude to practice healing arts. These arts were practiced and taught by the “Cunning Folk” or nature healers such as Nell.
Nell was uncommonly wise, old soul that she was; she had taught many forms of art; this had included the fine needle work which Amarelle so excelled at. Needle work was an art which Amarelle had sought to utilize for its supplemental value so as to contribute to their household’s well-being. It was a prospect that so excited her that she’d ignored Nell’s warning to stay away from the colony. Her ignorance had caused not only her own downfall but Nell’s demise. If only she’d ignored the compliments regarding her garments.
The women of the congregation had beguiled her by filling her head with flattery and compliments. All the while, they promised a commission to Amarelle. She would be paid to stitch new finery for the Preacher, if only she’d step into the parsonage and take his measurements – that is how she’d come to be accosted.
Amarelle deduced her imminent downfall was due to her own vanity, naivety and innocence – all of which had blinded her to the truth of what lay hidden behind the jealous, vindictive smiles of the congregation’s women. Those women had taken much enjoyment in her torture. At the Preacher’s bidding, they had also kept her awake for days – no food – no water – they made her walk continually with no rest. They called her wanton, whore, witch, and concubine – evil! They goaded her then promised the torture would stop if she’d just confess – repent her sins or give up the Sacerdotessa. Amarelle held fast. She would not tell; could not tell.
The women were obedient. They fulfilled the Preachers instruction without question. When the Preacher ordered her stripped, they searched her body for marks of the Devil. The Preacher searched her inner orifices himself. Nary a one refuted his repugnant act – the women like the Preacher were corrupt in their puritanical beliefs. It was the latter defiling that made Amarelle’s mind take temporary leave.
When the accuser’s found no marks on Amarelle to suggest that she was a witch, they stood her on shaky legs and wrestled her toward a wooden table where a thumb press waited to be used. After forcing Amarelle’s thumbs into the device, they began turning, turning, turning the press until it drilled into her thumbnails.
The crushing pain was too much for Amarelle to bear. It was then that she screamed Nell’s name. She had screamed for her mother. It was a cry begging for rescue, not an accusation! Still, it was the only evidence the Preacher and his congregation required to take their hunt for evil to the next level.
Amarelle’s guilt would not be assuaged.
She would never forgive herself for the part she’d played in the Preacher’s twisted plot or the trumped up accusation against Nell. Amarelle’s guilt consumed her. She remembered standing amongst a crowd. They were all chanting, “Burn witch.”
She had a fleeting thought, “Better to be dead or loose one’s mind than live with a conscience full of guilt.” She had no memory of what followed next, only remnants of a spirit voice which spoke to her refusing to let her mind hide in the darkness of the void. A voice like ‘Ole Ma’s’ which encouraged her to wake up.
Awake she was now; her eyes were wide open with ears ringing and face stinging from being back-handed. The pain struck her like the lightening memories of her past. The burning sensation of it re-ignited a fire of defiance within her. Amarelle stood fist clenched around a red thorny rose. In front of her loomed the lurid threatening figure of her nemesis. Amarelle had come face to face with her nightmare. Blood dripped from her fist as she squeezed the rose. The crimson droplets landed in quick succession from her hand to her foot then trickled onto the floor board.
Amarelle had no recollection of how long her mind had been gone nor had she any memory of the ongoing trauma. Judging by her reflection in the window, she’d endured plenty. It was a small penance she’d pay for the wrong that she’d done. A wrong coerced by this hulking demon before her.
Amarelle remembered this ruthless man.
“I see you have awakened at long last,” he grunted enraged, “I’ll teach you for waking me with that vapid screeching before the rays of the sun have appeared on the horizon!” then threw her toward the bed.
She hit the side of it and crumpled to the floor. The preacher reached down and grabbed Amarelle by the nape of her gown choking her as he twisted the garments material and forcefully propelled her onto the bed. His vulturous eyes bulged as he pried open her legs and fell atop her. When she started to scream, he smothered her mouth with his monstrous fat hand.
“This coupling,” he hissed, “is my right as a man just as it is your connubial duty as a woman. You will shut-up and endure it. We will produce many heirs. My seed is strong. Stop fighting you wonton bitch! I much preferred you as a submissive, lifeless shell.”
A feeling stronger than hatred filled Amarelle. She would endure him no longer.
She squirmed loosening his hand from her mouth and bit down on what she could only imagine was a finger.
Blasphemous words flew from the Preacher’s mouth as he wrapped his hands around Amarelle’s throat and squeezed.
Her world went black.
Read this story from the beginning, to find Vultures – Chapter 1 & 2 click on the links below:
Vultures
I hope you have enjoyed this story so far. I will be updating chapters periodically for your continued enjoyment.
Thanks for following!
Sorry but this was too difficult for me to read. I had to stop. Blessings to you
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Thanks for your comment. It is a bit grueling but I am enjoying moving beyond my own comfort zone 😊
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I understand! Peace.
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