Free When the Black Roses Grow by Angela Christina Archer

breath the closer they drew to my home.
    “Kill the witch,” the crowd chanted. “Seek the justice and kill the witch.”
    Please no, Lord, please no.
    Closer and closer, the crowd advanced.
    “Kill the witch. Seek the justice and kill the witch.”
    I held my breath. My lungs begged for air and my mind spun in a clouded daze. My knees trembled under my weight. I exhaled, closed my eyes then drew one last deep breath, holding it, in fear.
    “Kill the witch. Seek the justice and kill the witch.”
    Please, do not come for me. Please do not come for me.
    Seconds ticked by until the crowd’s chants were outside at my front gate. They echoed through my home with a depth that could hath knocked the walls to the ground. I bit my bottom lip and clenched my eyelids so tight my forehead pierced with pain. The room began spinning, the dizziness consumed.
    “She will hunt us all,” a man shouted through the repeating chants. “She should be hanged for her treason.”
    My hands gripped the window sill and my nails dug into the wood—grasped so intently the splintered wood jabbed into my skin, nearly drawing blood. My heart pounded, thumping so hard, the pulse deafened my ears.
    “Come on, men. Let us seize her!”
    Please, God, please, no.
    My shoulders stiffened and braced for the knock on my door. Seconds ticked by, then minutes. The voices began to fade. I opened my eyes. Not a single soul protested in front of my wooden gate, the crowd had vanished in the distance.
    My trembling fingers slipped from the window sill. My knees buckled and I collapsed. My head slammed against the floor and pain spread across my scalp.
    Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale.
    My body heaved with my heavy breaths. My vision blurred.
    Chaotic thoughts swirled through my mind—the unknown and known of my haunted memories. I pressed my forehead into the floor boards, and through my sobs, both relief and horror spread over me.
    The villagers traveled toward a home to accuse a woman of witchcraft.
    And, the woman was not me.
    I slowly tilted my head and glanced at the vine resting beside me. What would I hath done if Reverend Perris knocked on my door? What would he hath done if he saw the black magic sitting in the corner of my home?
    I rose to my feet, fetched a knife from the kitchen, and strode toward the green and black adversary, a foe I must destroy.
    Please, God, send it away. Send it away from here.
    Screams echoed in the distance, pulsating though my ears and silencing my prayers. I dropped the knife. It plunged to the floor, nicking my foot with the sharp blade as it bounced.
    The crowd had found their victim—their proclaimed witch.
    I fetched my bonnet off the bed rail and tied the laces as I sprinted from my home and down the road, following the shouts from afar. Wind ripped through the laces of my bonnet, tugging on the strands.
    The townsfolk gathered in front of Deacon Goodwin’s home. Their torches still burned, the flames blazed and left a smoky haze in the air.
    “Give them justice. Kill the witch.” Their chants vibrated through my ears.
    Reverend Perris and Sheriff John Corwin stood poised on the porch next to Deputy Jonathan Cloyce, who held the end of the rope tied around Titana’s neck. An acquaintance of my mother, I had known the Goodwin’s housemaid for far too many years to count.
    “Give them justice. Kill the witch.”
    Deacon Goodwin and his wife lingered on the porch, too, on the other side of Reverend Perris. Tears streamed down Mrs. Goodwin’s cheeks. With her arms wrapped tight around her waist, her body trembled and swayed as she sobbed. Her eyes fixed upon the ground.
    Closer and closer, I crept toward the crowd.
    “I demand justice,” shouted Deacon Goodwin. “My girls lay chained to their beds for fear they will hurt themselves. I demand her life.”
    With his words, the screams of two young girls echoed from the open window of the home. The hair on the back of my neck stood as I clutched my throat. Each