Authors's Notes: This is the first thing I've written for The Crucible. I actually wrote this for an English assignment. I had to make a character look better than they actually were in the book and I received Abigail Williams. If it seems out of character, that's because it takes place before witch trials started.

Disclaimer: The Crucible belongs to Arther Miller. I get no money in writing this.

1689 On paper taken from a Boston inn. It was later found under the floor boards or one of the rooms.

My name is Abigail Williams. Some of you people reading this may know of me, some of you may not; but all of you have definitely heard of the incident in Salem. The tales of witchcraft that turned an entire town on each other were started by me. I was the first to point the finger at witchcraft, and I continued until I felt my safety was in jeopardy. I was praised, and I was cursed for my testimony; but people should know the true story. Was I, Abigail, an angel or a demon? By the end of this, you should know.

I was born in Salem Village. My mother and my father were killed by the savage Indians when I was young, orphaning me when I was only twelve. I was soon taken in by the Proctor family. I worked in their household in exchange for bedding and food. The Proctor's had two young sons; I always tried to play with them when I had the time, but Elizabeth Proctor worked me hard. I didn't leave them when my uncle and cousin moved into the town, I didn't want to. We were happy; these people had become my second family.

A few years later, when I was fifteen, I became aware of John Proctor's stares. His eyes would linger on me, taking in every detail, as if he were trying to commit them to memory. The emotion reflected in his eyes was one that I had never seen before; it was both frightening and exciting. He had never looked at Elizabeth with those eyes, at least from what I had seen.

It soon became a game between us. He would look when he thought that no one was watching, and I would make sure he had something to watch, I made sure to do chores involving bending over and reaching up high to grab things off shelves. Some of the older girls in the village had whispered among themselves that this got the men's attention, and John was no exception. I didn't miss the barely audible intake of breath that he made, nor did I miss the way he excused himself from the room and hesitating at the door just to look back at me.

I loved it.

This man had given me power over his reactions, and it was addictive. We were playing a game that had no winner; we could just try to get one step in front of the other, though I should have known that the game couldn't stay the same forever.

One day, maybe half a year after it started, our game came to a startling halt. I was in the barn looking for something, I can't remember what, when John accosted me harshly.

"Abigail, what exactly have you been doing?" He seemed almost frantic. He had gripped my arm hard enough that I could feel it pulsing in time with my heart.

"I, I don't know what you mean, sir," but I knew exactly what he was talking about. This game we had been playing; I knew that I shouldn't have continued it. I only did because I enjoyed the stares he gave me.

"You know damn well what I mean, girl!" he hissed. John was nearly panting. His eyes kept darting all over the barn, making sure that no one was coming and when he looked at me, his eyes held an expression I couldn't quite place. It was almost like hunger. "Don't try to say that you are ignorant of your actions!"

His grip on my arm hurt. I tried to pull away, but he wouldn't loosen it. His behavior was scaring me. I felt the lump in my throat, a sure sign that I was going to cry. I always cried when I got in trouble (alone, where I couldn't be scolded for that as well), but I hadn't done anything wrong! Surely this game couldn't be worthy of punishment? "I-I don't know sir! Please! I promise I'll stop!"

This made him pause. John looked at me with a quizzical expression; he was trying to see if I was telling him the truth. Understanding flashed over his face, quickly replaced by determination.

"Abigail, you are aware, that even if you don't know the nature of your actions, there are consequences for them, correct?"

I nodded; the tears I had tried to hold back bubbled to the surface and slid down my cheeks. I didn't want a whipping. I had never gotten one, but I'd heard the horror stories and seen the scars that some of the other girls had received when they disobeyed the family that they worked for.

"Good," he said before I felt him pressing me against the wall, his body pinning me in place. In seconds his lips were upon mine. I froze, completely unused to this action. I had no idea how to respond. Should I kiss back, or should I just stand there? I did what felt natural; my eyes closed and I pressed against him. I'm not sure how long we stayed like this. It felt as if years had passed in the time of a second. John abruptly pulled away and was out the door before I could catch my breath.

I stood there, still pressed against the wall even though there was nothing holding me there. Slowly I slid down the wall until I was sitting. My lips were tingling slightly; I moved my fingers across them and they tingled more. I smiled absently, just content to feel and not think about the consequences that this could bring up. They could wait until later.

I couldn't just sit there all day, though the idea was tempting. I stood up shakily, and made my way to the house. At the sight of Elizabeth, I blushed and almost broke into tears. John was her husband, and I had betrayed her by allowing him to kiss me.

"Are you alright, Abby? You looked flushed. I hope you're not becoming ill." Her voice was so gentle, so maternal; I felt like a despicable creature in her presence.

"I'm fine M-Mrs. Proctor. It's just the heat getting to me," I couldn't look her in the eye for fear that she would be able to see the truth in my gaze.

"Take care then, Abigail. I wouldn't want you to get sick." The kindness in her words was like a knife stabbing at my heart. I had never felt so low.

"I will, Mrs. Proctor," I dashed out of the room as fast as I could without looking suspicious.

A few months passed quickly and without incident after the kiss. John still stared at me, even though I no longer tried to catch his attention, and I would be lying if I said I hated it.

The vainest part of me took pride in his stares. We never stayed in the same room together alone, though. He was trying very hard to stay away from me, and I was trying very hard to stay away from him, but every time was a struggle. I wanted to feel it again, the closeness. Everyone seemed to keep themselves at an arms length away from everyone else; John's embrace was the most contact I had felt from someone else in years. I admit that I tried to recreate the feeling; the pressure of his lips against mine, with my hand, but it was no good. It wasn't the same; it couldn't give me the feeling that I wanted. I knew that I would soon succumb to the desire to feel it again and take initiative, I just didn't know when.

Fortunately I didn't falter, John did. I could feel his struggle in his kiss; it was needier than before, almost desperate. It was like he was trying to pull my life through that kiss; and I would have let him.

After that, it got more intense. We could control ourselves in front of others, but when we were alone all bets were off. It soon turned to sex, a subject that was a serious taboo in the eyes of the population. It was beautiful, amazing; I questioned myself more than once why it was treated like something disgusting. How could it be that this wonderful melding of bodies, the feeling of being so close to another person that you were practically the same entity, how could that be so controversial? It was as if everyone was all in denial about its importance.

They do it behind closed doors and then pretend that they had never experienced this; they had the nerve to call it the sin of the flesh. It was madness! I occasionally voiced my concerns to John in the aftermath of our lovemaking, and even he was uncomfortable about it. The theocracy had raised us all to believe this, and I found my self questioning it truly for the first time, but that was pushed to the back of my mind by other matters.

Elizabeth was a huge weight on my conscience. I had gotten much better at lying during this time. I had to, of course; I was lying every day to her. I constantly went from resenting Elizabeth, with her claim to John and his name, to feeling guilty. I was betraying the woman who took me in and raised me from the dark depression I had sunken into from my parents' deaths with a gentle, guiding hand, by sleeping with her husband. I loved John, I knew that with irrefutable certainty, but I loved Elizabeth as well. Maybe that's how she found out. Maybe I had accidently made her suspicious with my actions, or maybe she had just been suspicious from the very beginning. Either way, I never got the chance to ask her. John's and my secret was discovered by her in a most unpleasant way.

John and I were making love, an action that was becoming part of an almost daily routine, on a cold November night. He had stolen into my room after he thought Elizabeth was asleep and we were progressing normally. John was muttering incomprehensibly into my shoulder and I was struggling to remember that I couldn't scream out in ecstasy because of the others in the house, when she came to the room. Elizabeth, in all her fury, roughly pulled John off of me and grasped me by the hair. I gave out a cry, from both the rough treatment of my scalp and the discontent of being pulled away from John. I nearly screamed when she violently pulled me by the hair out of the room, while I was still naked.

I couldn't understand what she and John were saying. My mind still hadn't caught up to that, but they were obviously arguing fiercely. I caught a brief glimpse of the boys peeking out of their room at me, but they disappeared instantly at a sharp word from John. She dragged me downstairs, still by my hair, and it became apparent that she was going to throw me out of the house while I was still unclothed. John caught her before she made it to the door.

"Enough Elizabeth! Stop this now," John's command sounded more like a plea.

"How dare you! How dare you break the bond of our marriage with this whore?" I felt a stabbing pain in my chest at this. "This harlot cannot stay in my house!"

John suddenly became very still. His face had contorted into a mask of rage. I felt scared, and his anger wasn't even focused on me! "We will not talk of this tonight."

"I'm not just going to sit by—"

"Yes you are Elizabeth. We will discuss this in the morning."

"But--"

"In- the- morning." John's voice was low and dangerous. I pulled my hair out of Elizabeth's hold and turned to face her. The sight of her was too much for me to maintain my gaze. So many emotions were in her face: anger, hurt, fear, hatred, and even sadness. I wanted to weep because it was my fault that she was feeling all of that. The standoff between the three of us stretched for an eternity; then it ended in an instant. The fight seemed to go out of Elizabeth completely, and she turned, glared at me defiantly, and then walked up the stairs dejectedly. I looked to John for support. After that I needed someone to comfort me, but he didn't. He wouldn't even touch me. I made it back to my room and cried all night.

The next morning I went downstairs to find Elizabeth. I needed a chance to explain myself, but she and John were already waiting for me at the table. Elizabeth glowered at me with unconcealed loathing. I swallowed hard and went to sit down at the table to join them. I could tell from the circles under their eyes that I wasn't the only one who had a sleepless night.

"Abigail," Elizabeth began. "We talked this out all night and we both feel it best that you leave. Immediately." Her tone was unimaginably cold.

Her statement sent a shock of disbelief through me. They wanted me to leave? Both of them wanted me to leave? I looked to John with hope that he would come to my aid, but he never looked at me. He just kept looking at his clenched fists resting in his lap.

"You want me to leave?" I asked incredulously. I couldn't believe this; I refused to believe this.

"Yes."

"B-but where am I going to go?! You can't just kick me out of here!"

"I can and I will. As for where you should go, I don't care. If you're too foolish to remember that you do have family in town, then it's your own fault."

I looked at Elizabeth hopelessly. I could see nothing of the woman that I had loved like a mother in this frigid witch. There was nothing kind or gentle there, only a mask of hate. I again looked to John for support, but I found nothing in him. He was like a shell of the man I loved.

"But—"

"Abigail," my heart started at the sound of his voice, but then it fell at his tone. He sounded so despondent that I longed to wrap him in my arms. "You need to leave."

It was inconceivable that he said that. John wouldn't say that, he loved me! My eyes began shifting over the both of them, as I tried to make sense of this.

John wouldn't say this. This cannot be him. Elizabeth is controlling him.

Then I saw Elizabeth's smirk of triumph; she thought she had won. I looked down at my feet to hide the fact that I was starting to cry, and then I raced out the door. I needed to get out of there; I needed to get far away from this house and the memories that would forever be haunted by this encounter.

Elizabeth Proctor, I hate you!

Author's Note con't: I have some ideas to continue this throughout the entire plot of the book, but that all depends on if other people want me to. Please review!