All thought me, the ingénue*, the naïf – the girl-woman blessed by an unawareness of the evils of the world swirling around me. A simple mistress with scarlet red locks, vacant smile and impossible blue eyes.
What better way to conceal what would constitute reasons to have me burn at the stake? To feel the bundles of sticks catch fire beneath my bare, bloodied feet, to lose consciousness in the choking smoking as the flames lick and race up my dress, the devil grab my scapula** to welcome me home.
The spectacle of howling crowd scatter when the pyre is but a stump. Some, demonic in their own right, stooping to spoon the ashes into pentagon-etched receptacles to be used as ritual fetishes. So the maze of unbelief, deception, pain would a new.
My life is irreplaceable. I have no plans to vandalize my chances at a long one. No one need know I am a Necroscope.*** Other than the dead; and who were they going to tell.
ingénue*: an artless, innocent, unworldly girl or young woman
scapula** :shoulder blade (or as my husband calls it “angel bone”)
Necroscope.*** :someone who can communicate with the dead
@ my frilly Freudian slip