I feel a warmth. It grabs expectantly at my back. In a daze, I turned to search for the heat's source. I am being carried by a man. I know this man. I strain my eyes to see the face of my beloved father. But his embrace is not the heat that I acknowledged. This was not a loving heat you would feel from a fireplace on cold winter nights, while being comforted by friends and family. This is a fire, one that was birthed to kill.
My gaze transfers to my father's sweating brow, and then to his troubled face. We are in our precious house. The flames lick at the floorboards and scratch its bloody fingernails up the walls. My father hurriedly carries me down the hallway, toward the back door.
"She's a WITCH!" I hear voiced behind us.
"KILL HER! HER PARENTS MUST BE WARLOCKS TOO!" voices howl.
I turned my head to a woman running next to us. Next to her is a boy. Nay, he is a man, no older than 18. They are the figures of my mother and brother. We all reach the end of the hallway; my brother fumbles frantically with the doorknob. Finally it gives way. The door opens with a warning cry. The screams once behind us have surrounded the house. Entrapping us with flame of mouth and fire of murderous intent, I hear a gunshot. The bullet breaks at our feet. My brother slams the door. We turn and run into a bedroom, my parent's bedroom. With words piercing our ears and smoke in our lungs, my father sets me down and we sit on the queen size bed. In the last moments our full family will be together, my mother and father embrace us.
Then a large rock invades through the small window, just above my eye level, to the right of the bed. My parents look at the small freedom the vile rock had given us. My parents then glance at each other and nod. Turning toward us with smiles on their face, I see their mouths moving, I hear nothing emerging from them; I didn't allow myself to hear them, in fear of what was coming out of their cold lips. It was like my ears had been clogged from the smoke in place of my lungs. But my brother understood, he nods with tears threatening his eyes. Each of them kiss our foreheads. I look up to see my parents exchange one last kiss before they split down the hallway, my father runs toward the gunshot, and my mother darts towards what once was the front door. We hear yelling. Then my brother scoots the night stand under the window before grabbing me and shoving me out the broken window. He then drags himself out as well. With bloodied hands he drags me to the forest behind our fading paradise.
My brother stops me at a big tree and we huddle in its roots. I open my mouth with my eyes watered, but my brother's hand covers my mouth before any gasps of desperation escape my lips. The yelling gets farther from the cinders. Then we hear a gunshot. I begin to peer around the trunk, but my brother pulls me away before I can see the burnt corpse of a man hit the ground. Another shot, and another "slump" sound. The curdled voices turn silent, then cheering bursts from the bystanders watching the "incident." That incident was the beginning of the end of our peaceful lives. One phrase said by an arsonist pounds continuously at my ear drums, "Too bad that little girl turned out to be a witch, I really liked her family." Repeated in my mind over and over, "too bad…. too bad.." Those bitter words and the crackling of the fire are the last thing I see, before I wake with a start.
When my eyes open, the scene is gone. "It was the same nightmare again." I thought. I emerge to a familiar face rubbing against my hand. My sweaty and previously tensed body gets up and slumps towards the light, not that kind of light. I feed the house residents. I go back inside, there I find myself in front of a mirror. Today, I will be a boy, around the age of 14, will probably be most convenient, I think to myself. His name will be… Well I'll figure that out later, I thought. Out of the house, I walk down the path, towards the street directly in front of it. The closest street is about 300 meters from my fortress. "James" I decided. That is what my name will be today. "James" has Sandy blonde hair, and not much of a "Prince-like" figure, but there's hope, if I gave it to him, doubtful. He has a beautiful ordinarily shaped face, gorgeous, regular skin tone. Quite below-par eyes, and a height that he is not proud of. These are the features that make up "James Wimpleton." I need to work on my last names.
After I've walked about 200 meters I reach my good old neighbors, The Wilsons. They know I have a secret, though they don't completely understand it.
I see Gretta Wilson pulling weeds in her garden, and Henry Wilson involuntarily playing tug-of-war with their mule. They look up at the sound of my footsteps crunching on expired leaves lain across a blood-stained ground imbedded with memories of despair. I still see the remanence of the horrible red glow. I shake my head at the putrid thoughts. Then I notice Gretta smiling and waving at me. I wave back, Mr. Wilson, however, grumpily returns to the fight he's already lost with Mildred, the mule. Her "official" name, gifted to her by her original owners is "Sugar." I think that name suits her quite poorly. So I've substituted that name with a new one. Truth be told, I was just working on my naming skills.
A loud rustling in the bushes announces Simon, Mr. and Mrs. Wilson's cat. Somehow he's figured out my secret as well, and recognizes me no matter the shape or size I've become. Animal instinct, I guess, makes up for his lack of stealth. I snicker at my own mind remark and receive a squinted stare from Simon, as if he knew what I was saying about him in my head. I give him a reassuring pat on the head and he accompanies me on my walk down the Wilson's driveway. I have a one-sided conversation with him, about how many mice he hasn't caught and how many birds he failed to sneak up on, he acknowledges my assumptions with a flick of his tail or a dart of his eyes. We reach the end of the 100 meter driveway. Simon takes his leave, and I take a left.