Feeding The Dead And Hungry

• Belladonna Dwight, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2016

I gripped the bullet in between my teeth. He shot twice more; bang! Bang! A young boy lay
lifeless, beside his weeping mother, as blood trickles down his temple. Demanding shouts explode from the front of the restaurant. I don't usually come up here that often, but feeding the souls of the underworld is back-breaking work; they feed on death you see and I must bottle up moments like this.
The gunman notices me; “w-w-witch” he splutters, “kill her”.
Three dirty thieves charge at me, I pull out the knife, it's strapped to my thigh. Freckled with the enemies blood, I rip it from his throat. I deflect the bullet whizzing towards me with my knife.
“But I'm merely a witch? Does it look like I'm wearing your mothers drapes?” I exclaim to the gunman.

His innocent eyes make the souls go crazy, it is him, he will feed the souls tonight. I rip at his silvery torso. I reach my hand into where his heart is beating a million miles per hour. I clench his heart, he lets out a gut-wrenched squeal for help, but no one dares to help.
“ it, it’s you, it can't be you, your only a myth” he says.
“I am nothing but a myth, feeding the souls so you don't end up with enraged demons up here is my duty”.
And with a mighty tug I plucked his heart from his chest. I paint my pastel pink pants with the blood that enveloped my hand. I walk towards the cash register where a young woman, shaking in distress. I politely ask her for two cheeseburgers with fries to go, she hurried to get them, the quickest any McDonald's staff member has ever brought food to the register. Why don't they work like this more often? It's much more efficient. I take my order and leave.

I lead myself towards the exit when a young girl shouts at me, repeatedly. She speaks a foreign language, something like that of Latino Americans. I cannot comprehend what she is saying. She launches herself up and at me, still shouting a repetitive verse. Her lengthy arm reaches for my knife. Defensively, I push her away with force, she throws two punches; one to my cheek the other in the stomach. Five minutes pass by, five minutes filled with fighting, hair pulling, scratching and screaming. Once again she reaches for my knife and with an almighty slash she cut through my femoral artery. Blood, everywhere, sprayed across the white washed walls.
She repeats the verse once more; “hoc sacrificium eu mortem pueri” (meaning- sacrifice this witch for the death of a young boy).
My life, flashed before my eyes…

It was on this fateful night a witch died, but a new one was born, a young Latin girl. She killed another, for the soul purpose of redeeming it for another, just like I did but for the dead and hungry.