Judgement cometh for the witch

The branch carried her burdens…stronger than she could.

Lives flashed before her eyes…most not her own.

First, she was the sailor, watching living whips drag her brethren to their watery graves. Then she was the mother, whose nine months yielded silent devastation. Then she was the gambler who murdered a drunk for having a playing card suspiciously tucked in the cuff of his shirt. An ace, black at first, but soon smeared with clotted crimson and regret.

And, tucked away in a distant memory, she was the girl her mother called Catherine, watching the wagons dance around the prairie, wondering if gold would find any of the men looking for it. She was the girl her father told to run, right before the injuns stole his purse and claimed his scalp.

She was the lonely woman whose preternatural mind became a bottomless ravine, capable of consuming the thoughts that crippled the strong; the fears that taunted the weak; the doubts that ripped families apart.

“Lay upon my lap,” she would say, “and let my presence take your pain.”

Memories poured like tears down their cheeks and crashed onto lifeless floors. Yet for her, the ground shook with violence as their torments bit her bare feet, tugged at the pit of her stomach, and made her heart its heavy home.

“Angel,” she was called by those she helped forget their burdens. 

“Demon” by those who refused her.

But the punishment was hers to bear. She did not remove sins, only the memory of sin. And if they cannot remember what they’ve done, can they repent? 

Was she doing the devil’s deeds?

But the punishment was hers to bear. She rid the tortured souls of their scowls and frowns and returned life to their smiles. And if they hold no guilt, would they not be closer to God?

Was hers the work of angels?

She’d find out soon enough.

Her breath was fleeting, and the rope was steadfast…she made sure of it. 

She thought of those she had helped in this life.

And simpered as she entered the next.