- slipping right through your hands, she's a -

Once upon a time there was a witch. The magic had made her hideous, but it also made her beautiful.

Young men came for her, seeking to use her glamoured looks in the way in which one normally uses young women. She let them come, enticing them and later using their blood and lights for her spells.

One day, for reasons best known to herself, the wicked witch did not let a certain young man approach her. Instead, she unveiled herself of her magicks, letting him see her true form, and giving him the option to escape.

He did, of course, and she let him.

When he was an old man (and she still young, by the standards of witches) he wondered why she'd chosen him, and what would have happened if he'd entered her lair willingly, without needing to be fooled as the others had. If he'd made the other choice.

Of course, there is no way of knowing.

Someday

He'll be here someday. I know he will. I just have to be patient.

*

It's the waiting that's so difficult. I know he'll be here, but I -

Well, it's hard to wait. It's so lonely here.

*

Mother visited me today. She worries that I do not eat, do not care for my appearance. She says that I grow thin and haggard.

I should eat. I should look nice, for him, when he comes.

He will come.

*

Mother is pleased with me. She says my face is less haggard, and that my hair seems healthy and lustrous again. She spent hours combing it. I complain when she tugs, and it hurts my scalp, but she pays me no mind. Sometimes, I think she cares more for my hair, than for me. It's down to the floor now.

I wonder if he'll think it pretty? Mother says it is.

*

Although I am still young, sometimes I worry that I shall grow old, waiting for him. Old and grey and unloved, wasting all my years of beauty and health. Why does he not come?

He will come, someday. I just need to be patient.

*

I can see for miles, from the window. This tower is so high. Yet, in all these miles of scenery, I never see another living person - except mother, of course.

Sometimes, I wonder how she manages to enter this room, and if, perhaps, I could escape by the same route. There is no door - I have never seen a door, that I recall, but I have read of them, and so have some idea of what they are like. Mother brings me books. She says she does not wish me to be ignorant. Except of certain things, although she does not say that. I merely presume that there are secrets kept from me.

I wonder how much longer it will be?

*

Mother hasn't visited me in a while. She doesn't usually leave me alone for this long.

I wonder if she is dead? I wonder what will happen to me if she is? I do not want for food, or water - all my needs are provided for. I think I shall grow old and die here, waiting for him.

*

Some days, I must confess, I don't believe he will come. I doubt him.

Other days, I wonder if this doubting is, itself, what keeps him away.

Sometimes, I think of watching mother more closely, figuring out her magic, and using it to escape. But what could I possibly do by myself, alone in a world I have only read of? I will be helpless alone. Far better to wait, for him. He wouldn't know how to find me if I left here.

Someday, he'll come.

*

The endless days stretch before me. I wonder how much it would hurt to throw myself from the window?

The speculation is useless anyway. When I step onto the windowsill, the wind blows me backwards. I cannot escape that way.

I remind myself that I must not escape, that I have a destiny waiting for me. I must wait, for him.

How much longer?

*

Sometimes, I don't believe that the world extends any further than these walls. I believe I imagined mother; I have not seen her in so long. Perhaps I imagine everything.

I can do nothing for myself. My only hope is to wait for him.

*

It had been so long since I heard another voice that my own came as quite a surprise to me. Normally, I am silent. There is no one to hear me, and I speak to myself just as well from within the confines of my own head. But, today, I decided to use my voice.

It was rusty through lack of use, at first. It gurgled like a rusty pipe, until I found the use of it. I didn't speak in sentences, or even form words. I made vowel sounds, carrying them for as long as possible, tuning the note in almost forgotten ways until it sounded pleasing to me.

Is this singing? I have read of it, but never heard it. Whatever it is, I enjoy it.

It passes the time while I wait for him.