SIXTY-TWO

Her hair was damp to her forehead, and her lips were out in an unnatural light. Clarissa tossed and turned on the bed, her hands twisting on the bedsheet, trying to dispel the dream, but it chased her along.

She could see the images of that wall come to life in her mind. It was acute and poignant, and she almost felt that she was there with the witches. She wanted to get out of there, and breathe, but she felt trapped.

“Don’t hurt me,” one of the witches cried.

But, a couple of men who were shapeshifting like it was so much fun, stepped in and he’d them to their death. They were either staked or burnt alive. There was no in-between. It was mostly dying, or you still die. It didn’t matter which method was used, all they cared about were the same results.

The shouts, screams, and pain, melded into Clarissa’s soul as one. She tried to reach out to them, but it was like a glass separated them from her. She didn’t have an idea what she was going to do to make their pains better.

She tried