WICCANA
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"Welcome to Wiccana, the town of Love and Unity."
I drive past the bright white painted sign. Beyond it, a vast expanse of dark green grass gradually gives way to towering houses—looming, arrogant, like vultures perched on a cliff, claiming the land as their own.
The town is built around a lake, its quiet streets free of sirens, drunks, or the restless anxiety of the city. Here, everything is still. Too still. The house I found online costs only $200 a month—unbelievably cheap for a place not too far from New York. It’s perfect for my writing while I wait for my internship at the publishing house to start.
The cottage is pristine, its white paint so fresh I can still smell it. Delicate pink and yellow patterns decorate the doors and beams, surrounding a strange antler-like symbol. “Weird but cute,” I think, running my fingers over the design. There’s no TV, so I move an empty cabinet aside and place a bamboo rocking chair against the wall.
Life in Wiccana is surprisingly easy. Days slip by like water, the town’s tranquility wrapping around me. Apart from the occasional trip to Manhattan to check my mailbox, I stay here, in this little oasis, basking in the golden light that filters through my windows.
My closest neighbor is Marie, a single mother raising her three-year-old son, Austin. Despite her struggles, Marie always appears impeccable, from the tips of her styled hair to the polish on her toes. She carries herself with a grace I admire. We get along well, and I find myself drawn to her quiet wisdom—until one evening, everything changes.
It starts with a crash. A jar shatters. My heart drops. The glass fragments on the floor gleam like tiny daggers, and among them stands Austin, his wide eyes reflecting the mess he has made. It was my mother’s jar—the only thing she left me.
I barely register Marie’s apologies. My voice rises, sharp and cold. I don't remember what I yell, only that Marie gathers her son and disappears into the night.
Days pass. Then, one evening, Marie knocks on my door, panic in her eyes. She needs to leave for an emergency and asks me to watch Austin. I hesitate but agree. Strangely, the boy is silent the entire night, watching cartoons before dozing off. When Marie returns, she hugs me tightly, thanking me as if nothing had happened. Perhaps, I think, we have moved past our awkward encounter.
The next morning, screams pull me from my sleep. I open the door to find Marie sobbing, her voice carrying through the neighborhood. The townspeople gather, drawn by the commotion.
Marie clutches Austin by the thigh, his little pants yanked down to expose his legs—marred with red, raw scratches.
"Tell them!" she shrieks, shaking the child. "Tell everyone who hurt you!"
Tears spill from Austin’s eyes as he slowly lifts a trembling finger—
And points directly at me.
A gasp ripples through the crowd. My breath catches. I stumble backward, mouth opening to protest, but the weight of their stares suffocates me. Faces I barely know twist with accusation. Whispers swell into shouts.
Someone grabs my arm. “I always knew she was off,” a woman hisses.
Another voice, sharper, angrier: “I saw her push a shelf over in the grocery store once. Like a psycho.”
A man spits on the ground. “Heard she threw a lighter at an old man for confronting her at a gas station.”
“I don’t even smoke!” I cry, but no one listens. My words dissolve in the frenzy of voices. Hands seize me, dragging me inside my house. The door slams shut behind me.
I am a prisoner.
Outside, Marie sobs as townsfolk comfort her. Meanwhile, they take turns spitting at my doorstep, as if I am something to be exorcised. They speak of justice. Of punishment. A middle-aged man steps forward.
"If there’s no proof," he declares, "the law will let her go. We can’t risk that. We must deal with her ourselves."
I scramble to block the door with furniture, but it is useless. The wood splinters, and they flood in like a tidal wave.
Rough hands yank my hair, tear at my sweater. Someone kicks me to the floor. My belongings scatter—my manuscripts, my clothes, my memories. A man smashes my mother’s jar again, grinding the shards under his boot before tossing my papers into the fire.
I scream, fighting against their grip, but the more I resist, the more gleefully they record my struggles, crafting their proof. "Look at her! Violent! Dangerous!"
Water crashes over my head. I choke, gasping as ice seeps into my bones.
A woman kicks me. I don’t fight back.
A boy slaps my ear. I don’t dare to flinch.
It is dark by the time they drag me outside. I no longer struggle. My swollen eyes barely register Marie’s face in the crowd, twisted in a triumphant smile as she cradles her son.
Then—
Boom!
Flames erupt inside my house. Someone cheers. The fire crackles hungrily, devouring the last of my existence. The townspeople do not run. They rejoice.
Hands lift me onto a van. They strap me to a pole, force hard antlers onto my head, and parade me through the streets. I am no longer human—I am their monster, their sacrifice.
They chant songs I do not know, throw pig’s blood and eggs at me. Some dance, others kneel in worship. I faint, only to be revived and marched onward.
As we approach the lake, I catch a final glimpse of the billboard in the distance.
"Welcome to Wiccana, the town of Love and Unity."
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by Lamu Xiangqiu 10.10.2020