In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Wicked Witch.”
She walked with purpose; she walked with poise, if poise is walking with vile thoughts splattered on your face. She smiled the sweetest smile with a hint of poison.
Her voice is tinted with stabs of knives. She exudes cold air anywhere she goes.
She come bearing gifts of the olden days and promised it as brand new. She spoke of sweet words only to push you under the guillotine.
She caressed your hair as if she gave birth to you herself, when she spoke the whisper of lies about you to others. She was proud of you only because you look like someone she saw as a walking trail of gold.
She hates you because she knows by heart that you were never hers to claim. She detests you because you speak the language of truth and she can’t win over that.
She is playing the age old game of manipulation and it is only so much that she can play until she ran out of cards. And when it happens, all four of us will stand tall before her with the brightest of smile, while the eldest will caress her cheek, and the rest will whisper the words she fear the most.
And when she begs for mercy knowing that no one, not even her walking trail of gold, can help her; that’s when the wicked witch from the south shall perish on the first sun of the winter.
The mother of our father, the wicked witch from the south, is nothing if not a heap of ash now; that’s when we know we have endured her evilness for so long and we came out as the winner.