Her name was Summer, but her eyes stormed like two hurricanes about to make landfall. She always wore black, and whenever the shade inevitably began to fade to grey, she would paint the garment back to life again.
And my whole town was convinced she was a witch.
The cellar they kept her in hadn’t been breathed in, in years. It was formless, desolate and decrepit, and completely rid of any life. The walls were stone, cold and hard, and seldom ever drawn on due to the lack of human presence in the room. The maid, a typically clean-cut person, would briefly dust the wooden chest furiously before ashamingly running out, her eyes fleeing the scene faster than her little legs could – or ever did.
In the off-chance that anyone was found to be in the cellar, the story of the alleged witch would be whispered around like a deadly disease. They spoke of the witch, the woman who could magic fire from her fingertips and dispell anyone who crossed her path. “She was only 15,” they would say, or “I heard that her eyes were as dark and abandoned as the ocean at night.”
They made up stories and fantasized over her, wondering what it would be like to be feared yet adored by so many. New Orleans was only big enough for one, however, and as they said, “All witches burn.”