I don’t know what I did wrong. Maybe I looked at them wrong. Maybe it is the pockmarks on my face, that make me less than desirable. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m an orphan.
Whatever it is, I swear I’m not a witch. I never even dreamed of dancing in the woods with the devil, or striking a child by some eldritch means. I go to services every Sunday, just like everyone else. They’ve known me all my life, these people, and yet here I stand in this church, condemned.
These souls that have always looked on me as one of their own are transfigured. Twisted with hate, they shout accusations. I don’t think such things can be done. All this time, I have gone along with the witch hunts, assuming the others knew best.
But now I know the truth. These people are like frightened children, quick to call a shadow on the wall a monster. They are scared to death that misfortune will befall them. They want to blame someone, to put a name on the peril in this world, to eradicate it.
How could a loving God sanction such evil?