Witches Don't Burn, Silly

The air in the kitchen was thick with the scent of lilies and disapproval, a potent mix of the Villager Elders' wives baking a feast. My cheek pressed against the door, cold and tear-stained, as I listened to their hushed, then shrill, whispers. "Did you hear why Lady Gloriosa ran away?" Penelope's voice was a sharp needle through the floral perfume. "She was a witch!" Margaret declared, and the crash of a dropped plate echoed, making me wince for the expensive china. My mother. A witch? The word felt alien, a stone in my gut. Fresh tears welled, blurring the sliver of moonlight filtering through the hallway. How could they say such things about my angelic mother? "Is that why the girl's hair is such a strange color?" Georgina's voice, laced with horror, snapped me back. I clutched a lock of my own bright silver hair, shimmering like spun moonlight in my hand. "Mariposa?" My father's voice, stern and raw with anger, shattered the moment. I jumped, startled, away from the door. His ice-blue eyes, usually cold, were now bloodshot, narrowed, and filled with a terrifying madness I'd never seen. He looked at me, and I felt a chill colder than any winter wind. It was the look of a man teetering on the edge, the look of people dragged to the crazy house. He tossed me aside, dismissing me as he might a broken toy. Margaret, surprisingly, offered a supportive hand, ushering me into the kitchen where the cooing of the other women did nothing to erase that horrific image of my father, forever etched in my mind. Today, I didn't just lose my mother. I lost my father too.