Young Lady

I don't know what I imagined when "witches" are forcibly taken from their homes, but it certainly wasn't this. No silver bracelets made contact with my pale, sensitive wrists. No barred makeshift cart to take me away, with my fingers desperately slipping through the gaps between, yearning for the mercy of the people. Instead, a fancy, black, government car awaited with it's doors swung open wide. 

My new, white duffle sits beside me. I don't remember what exactly possessed me to move forward, assuming I even sat here willingly. With the lack of hands-on contact, an attempt to escape hadn't yet become impossible. Now I sit in the comfortable, leather chair with my head up against the tinted windows. Somewhat ignoring who sat in front of me. 

My sorry filled eyes fixated on the scene just outside. The sight of a white, beautiful house which harbored a perfectly green yard. A mother who watches from the distance. A father who can't even bring himself to look. Finally, the remnants of a seventeen-year-old girl clinging onto her state of innocence. A pretty scene really, as depressing as it may be. With the dirty liquid pooling, a mere minute later, everything became blurry. Washing away the perfect engraving inside my own overwhelmed head. 

I am going to die. This is the last I will ever see of this house. I miss the house where I used to reside, knee deep in the woods. So far, nobody without prior, detailed instructions would be able to stumble across it. Then there would be no way to break that stupid cellphone. Then I could just wait out this hell whole another year. I am aware optimism gets you no wear but dead in a place like this. Even so, my hope sung confidently for it only to shatter into a million pieces. Leaving nothing but a gut-wrenching silence. Pessimism may have been the right call all along. 

If I pulled on the silver door handle, would I be free? Would I die the moment my sack of flesh hits the concrete, or will I live on? Are my odds truly higher as a tattered, wanted, woman? 

"Lady Cassy, I advise against such course of action." The government's vehicle soldier speaks up, following my fingertips as they make contact with the cool, silver handle. 

No shit, you want me dead. You had been hired by the government to keep "witches" in their place. There is no such reason for my best interest to be in your beating heart. The government man possesses a heart imbedded in the murky darkness, too deep for the threads of morality to journey. The limit of his kindness extending little ways past himself. 

"What did you just call me?" 

"Lady Cassy." The man repeats again in a firm voice.

Wiping the tears from my ugly, dripping eyes, I take a good look at the man in front of me. He could only be described as an aging beauty, with muscles so thick it made you question whether or not he's on steroids. The roots of his hair didn't match the ends, a dirty blonde fading into a rich brown color. But his eyes were an ocean blue possessing some level of depth between them. Harboring complicated emotions in his otherwise "respectful" demeanor. 

A witch should be called a witch if that is to be what they are executed for. I have long accepted that statement. It brings an anxious ease to my well-being.

"My lady, the car is traveling at 80 mph; you'll die if you do that." 

...

"I'll die if I stay here."

The man's blue eyes come in contact with mine, his face showing slight signs of distaste. I stay in car, I die. If I flee out the door, we both die. If my death is so certain, then why should I risk his? Because he works for the government.

"Lady Cassy-"

"Stop, I don't belong to nobility." 

 "Young miss, heed my words." The man warns, tugging on his breast pocket, revealing a small black microphone. "Stay compliant." 

I nod my head in thanks to the government man. I shut my mouth as to not further incriminate myself. If there was any hope in getting out of this alive, the last thing needed is a mountain of evidence to my name. 

Though, if being recorded to the government, wouldn't it make more sense to not use a formal way of addressing someone? Like shut the fuck up witch, is much more suiting than young miss. It almost seemed as if she wasn't going to prison, but truly some unheard-of government school for rich people. I mean, that would explain the white duffle at her side with the never seen before logo or the life changing cellphone notification. Certainly, the man wouldn't lie about where they were going. When a witch is arrested their fate is almost always spat at them on repeat till there is no more spit to spat. 

"Where are we traveling too?" I ask, staring out the window taking in the changing scenery. 

"Young miss, you received a cellphone notification."

I am well aware of that Mr. soldier. It will be impossible to ever forget that stupid cellphone notification. Clearly, he had no incentive to be helpful. Fuck, the anti-witch propaganda is more useful than this. 

The capital city is big. There is no denying that. However, not big enough to speed through it longer than ten or so minutes. Awfully far to complete an efficient execution if you ask me. So far, the scenery around is utterly unrecognizable. 

I wonder what kind of school is so far from the capital, with its precious kids attending there. A boarding school so far away there must be a reason. Outside is all trees, orange in color. Nothing disturbed the grass its roots stuck too. The blades of green grass exceptionally lengthy. Everything rests practically untouched. If it weren't for the big old watch towers, I would have questioned whether or not this is the same society I am somewhat apart of. 

Then again questioning is what got me into this mess in the first place. If I had just looked at the cellphone notification calmly, instead of yeeting it across the room as if it's some diseased guy then there would be no evidence against me and I would be more inclined to believe that my fate isn't on the chopping block. 

If my fate is already beyond my reach, then there is no longer no reason to not question everything. If the fear of impending death is what previously kept me silent, would I no longer have any reason to seal my lips or accept fate? Past the point of no return, I unbuckle my seatbelt staring the soldier dead in the eyes.

Time to add more evidence to my damaged name. I will reach for the unattainable. When I die, it will be at my own hand.

"Young Mis-"

The harsh outside air pushes its way into the vehicle, ruffling all objects that haven't been previously bound. Smiling, I feel my heart flutter one final time as I fly out of the government black car.