The Moon

It is not finished. More so, a rough draft for a school history project on the Salem Witch Trials

I sit, oh so sadly, in this cell. I am cramped, disheveled, exhausted, and shoved so close to so many others, yet I have never felt more alone. The damp, slick layer of mildew on the floor rots my drab clothes and sickens me; although not as much as the accusations of others have. The moon, with it's transcendent glow, mocks me, for it is free and I am not nor ever will be. These bars  and walls may disappear in a century, but the burden of witchcraft will always stay with me. 

  I hear people coughing, snoring, crying. The sounds of sadness all forming together to make a symphonic piece of depression. There is no comfort, only solitude and despair. As I fill this blank sheet of paper with my words though, I feel a single tear run down my tender cheeks for I too am dead.  

  So much hatred.

 The frigid wind tingles on my warm skin, slowly sucking the life out of me, far before my time. Although, no matter what, I will always be gone before my time. God has left me, Satan has found me. I did what is right, though apparently Satan is a cunning thief. A thief who instead of stealing money, takes hopes, aspirations, and love with him. Taking these emotions and slowly burning me in them, enjoying the agony which I cleverly hide from the others. 

  I hear mumbling. It's incomprehensible what is being said. The sounds slice into my line of thought, with the dagger of fear. Cries begin to erupt as well, the only way we kind of people can communicate. Soon we will be taken out and hanged.  It its completely useless to bang on the bars, to scream at the guards, to deny the truth. For we are all dead.

  I look back up towards the moon, which does bring me back to reality. But rather than a light drift back to the world, I feel as though I am a stone being dropped only to hit the ground and crack myself and the clay below me. The dark sky is like an abyss, slowly sucking away the people of Salem into the void. Where all evil lies, where we are all going. 

  To a place far past the moon.

The guards yell at us, banging on the rusted steel bars of our domicile, making my other four cellmates huddle back towards the farthest corners of the room like scared animals. Yet, isn't that all we are?

Reviews

[Phillitup]

Alex,
You definitely wrote this. It's essence is that of a talented writer that I know of. This story is sad, it emits the chilling tears of a warm, dark cell. The definite end of these people was uncalled for. They are depressed. It always bewilders me how the moon, such a large thing which is pulled by gravity, be more free then people. Therefore, it is true. The depression in this short story is real. The fate of your character is sealed and they can not help but cry. I have nothing much more to say except that, as always, you used wonderful vocabulary. I can hear you read this to me...