Heather D Haigh

Listen to Heather read her story

‘Twas the babbling and the scrabbling and the foetid reek of evil. That witch has been a-brewing, her familiar prowling—scorbutic maw drooling and a-growling, clicking claws a-scratching, silver eyes glinting. They are quick. She sent the fever and the shaking and the pains like bones are breaking and the sores upon my cunny which suppurate, exudate, excoriate. She hexed me with her hate—hate—hate. Would see me on the slab, steal the pennies from my eyes and mourn me not. 

Or maybe she loves me—for she knows me—would she hold me? Would she stroke my hair and whisper promises of kindness? Would she keep them? 

I know. Know she sent the pox; she knows no whore could buy the box; she watches me waste away, ooze away, while she laughs the day away. What kind of love is that? 

What do you call a strumpet with the pox? What do you call a trull who crosses a witch? What do you call a harlot who steals from the rich? 

So you saw. You did, didn’t you? I felt you watching. Felt your eyes upon my back, felt your breath upon my neck—your hand upon my collar—your noose around my throat, heard you braying while I swung, and that witch sang her song of devilry—danced her dance of revelry—cackled, while the crowd heckled, jeered and told themselves—they’d never. But, who amongst you would not take the box? The box to cure the pox. 

He was a fine gentleman, he was. In his tall black hat and his neat blue britches, silk cravat at his neck, frock coat covering his sinfulness. 

He whipped me as he rode me—baying like his hounds—slavering over my back, the stench of madness upon him. He was far gone, far far gone. Too late for the pills for him. He never missed them, did he? 

Did he? 

There’s always coin for a fuck but never coin to fix a whore. Leave the slattern in the gutter, leave the slut to fester and rot. So I took what I needed, for he shared what he got, but t’was her sent me to him. 

Mother, we call her, though only the finest Lords suck at her teats. My girls, my pretty ladies, bring no stench to mother’s breast, bring no trouble to her doors, trouble not your mother dearest, be good little whores.

The pox will not have me. She will not have me. I have the blue mass—the mercury pillules—the calomel. A dose for the twitches, another for the rashes, and one to stop my hair from falling out. Call off your familiar, Witch! Call off the shade who shimmers, for he is fickle and capricious, blows hot, blows cold, a mutable monster—miasma be gone—I will grow old. 

A few more doses, just a few more doses, and I will grow old.

Heather is a sight-impaired spoonie and emerging working-class writer from Yorkshire. Her work has been published by Fictive Dream, The Phare, the Timberline Review, Free Flash Fiction, WestWord and others. When not writing or napping she can sometimes be found waving her camera around or making messes she optimistically calls arty. She knits silly hats to hide self-inflicted hair disasters. Find her at heatherbooknook

Read more from Heather:

WestWord – ‘How Perfectly Creativity Shapes our World, You Said’
Raw Lit – ‘I’m Not Thinking About’