Witch
Sometimes when Anne was younger, she would daydream about being adopted. That she really was her Aunt’s child, but since she was unmarried, they had pretended she wasn’t. Now Anne knew her Aunt wouldn’t ever had acted in such a way, but it didn’t hinder her when she was younger from kneeling by her bedside every night, clasping her hands tightly together, shutting her eyes and fervently pray that it were true and that soon she would come get her. That she would open her eyes in the morning and find herself at Shibden – where she was allowed to be who she was. Nowadays, at sixteen, Anne didn’t have such silly thoughts. Only ever in secret – and only ever sometimes.
She was home for Easter, which was in April this year, but after her birthday on the third. She had been up since five that morning to study in secret and she had just hidden her literature under a lose floorboard in her room after concluding her studies for the morning. If her mother knew she would surely get the beratement of the century as well as having to watch her mother burn her books before her very eyes. Anne eyed the floorboard, made sure it was secure enough, so no one suspected it.
“Anne, you’re late for breakfast.”
Marian opened her door and stood looking at her elder sister with hands on hips and Anne fought an urge to roll her eyes. Her sister was the most ridiculous thing – she loved her but, this behaviour of hers - acting like she was Anne’s superior, it just didn’t do it for Anne.
“I’m aware, Marian, thank you.”
“They have already cleaned it up.” Marian smiled at her with contempt written all over her face, and Anne shrugged her shoulder,
“Why bother then? Hm? Why gloat? You know what mother does to me. Please do me the kindness of starting to use that brain of yours. It’ll do you no good to use our mother’s.”
Marian’s smile vanished and she frowned, crossing her arms,
“If you know all that – then why were you late?”
“Well, sometimes, Marian, we have better things to do or simply other things that take up our time – you cannot always expect it to be your friend.” Anne sighed, she needed to get outside without Marian tagging along – her, Sam and John were going to fence down by the glade and if Marian found out she might let it slip. Anne didn’t blame her overly much – her sister was young, and she saw what her mother did to Anne. Surely all those annoying and terrible things she did were because she wanted to make sure she remained in their mother’s good graces – because she ultimately wanted love and affirmation.
“What were you doing then?” Marian quirked an eyebrow, and Anne shook her head,
“Nothing that concerns you.”
“Who is Eliza Raine? You have written an awful lot of letters to her since coming home and you’ve only been home for a week.” Marian asked, and Anne clutched her fists, and her jaw tightened,
“How would you feel if I interfered with YOUR personal life?!”
“I’d hate it. That’s why I cleverly have no personal life.” Marian smirked and Anne pointed at the door,
“Get out!”
For once Marian heeded her and laughing closed the door behind her and Anne exhaled. Her heart was pounding quite hard in her chest. What if someone else noticed and thought it weird? Anne shook her head, no they wouldn’t because it was normal. Normal for young ladies to correspond with each other. No one would know by looking at them. Anne shook the lock on her chest drawer – it was still tight and secure. Anne breathed a sigh of relief. No one would need to know what was in there, nor what were in the journals she also kept in it.
“Anne, you better explain yourself, young lady!”
Her mother opened the door and Anne stumbled up from the floor again,
“I haven’t done anything – I’ve been up here all morning!”
“Not showing up at breakfast – poor manners are something I won’t stand for.”
Anne fought back a roll of the eyes – her mother was often drunk and vulgar – poor manners made up her mother’s whole being.
“I was busy.”
“The only thing you should busy yourself with is being on time, perfecting your accomplishments and do well at school so we can land you with something resembling a respectable Gentleman of good fortune.” Her mother fumed and Anne bit her inner cheek to not do something rash.
“Maybe I don’t want to marry!”
“Well, you don’t have a choice. If someone asks, you will tell them yes and that is the beginning and end of it. We won’t have you for longer than necessary and no one else wants you! Look at yourself – a disgrace to the whole family. Now perhaps you will get some sense knocked into you. Turn around!”
Her mother pointed at her with the cane she held in her hands and Anne complied – what else could she do? A part of her knew it were wrong, but this was so deep-rooted within her, and she thought there must be a reason for this, this hatred and these punishments. Anne took hold of the bedposts, and her mother caned her – she hadn’t dressed properly yet so the only thing between her bare back and the wood of the cane were her chemise. Anne hissed in pain as the lashes came raining over her back, she clutched tighter to the bedposts trying her hardest not to scream from the pain. She could feel her skin breaking and blood trickle down her back – it was in all humiliating. Tears stung her eyes, but she fought them back – she was not going to let her mother enjoy watching her cry and eventually the lashes subsided, and her mother stopped.
“I hope you realise deep down that you deserve to be punished. That this is all for you to be better, so that maybe one day we might love you.” Her mother said, holding her by the chin, her nails all but digging into her skin and then just like that – she was gone again.
Anne was left to her own, and with slow movements as to not upset the fresh bruises she called on Sarah to help her dress. She didn’t even frown when she went to clean the blood off her back – it happened all too often. And as it stung, Anne couldn’t help but think of her mother’s expression in the mirror as she thrashed her. Sometimes Anne thought she was a witch – someone who had the devil in them. For she couldn’t understand how a mother could beat her child and enjoy the pain that crossed over their face. Maybe it was normal – maybe Anne just didn’t get that.
One time, Anne had hoped it were true; that her mother was a witch. It was at fourteen – she had been thrashed out in the barn. After which Anne had gone in saying she would do something about it, her mother had become furious at that and whacked her in the face with a book. The well-aimed hit with the book managed to break her nose and it were now a bit crooked – not symmetrical. It didn’t help her already bad looks Anne thought bitterly. But Anne comforted herself, as her mother had said many a time ‘you cannot further spoil an already ugly canvas’. Anne had wished and prayed her mother really were a witch at that point because that might’ve meant that someone would find out and take her away – only witch prosecution hadn’t been a thing for the past two hundred years.
Anne hadn’t ever experienced any warmth or nearness from her mother– not as far as she could remember. The only time her mother ever did touch her was to beat her. Maybe her witch skin burnt when touching humans Anne mused and laughed at that thought – It was silly. But at that point two years ago, it had been the one thing that kept Anne sane through the beatings until school began or until they left for Shibden were her mother never so drastically hit her – wanting to keep up appearances.
“Witch, witch, witch.” Anne muttered to herself, “She’s a fucking witch.”