YEET IM ALIVE AND FUNCTIONAL

OKAY SO THIS IS A LIL SHORT IMO BUT UHHHH ITS BASED OFF THE POEM "HALF HANGED MARY" BY MARGARET ATTWOOD, ITS RLLY NICE AND ABOUT A WOMAN WHO WAS HANGED FOR WITCHCRAFT BUT DIDN'T DIE. THIS IS ALSO WHERE THE TITLE IS FROM YEEEEET

ALSO THERE'S SOME PRETTY RELIGIOUS TALK BC THIS TAKES PLACE IN 1600-ISH SALEM LMAO. FRIENDLY WARNING BC I KNOW SOME PEOPLE GET UNCOMFY W RELIGIOUS. I DONT BLAME YALL

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He doesn't know how it started. A single accusation in the name of the Lord turned into two, then three, then ten, and then hundreds on hundreds of them. Why does it surprise him that he's yet another victim? All the signs point to him, he fits almost every one of the "criteria," and he's got no way to defend himself.

All he had been doing was cutting wood for a fire when the people had come up onto his property, a warrant for his arrest in the air and his name on their tongues.

Their first reason? He lives on his own, on a secluded farm with nobody but his two cats and the birds that flock to him. With nobody to help him, his crops don't grow well enough to sell to the townspeople. And, according to them, because nobody's around to keep him in check, he must've been growing herbs and spices for black magic.

Their second reason is even more of a reach than the first.

He delivered a baby once. There had been nobody around to do it, as the local midwives had been out joining the witch hunt, and being the good neighbor he is, he had decided to lend a hand. The mother died of blood loss shortly after giving birth, the baby following within the week because of a poor caretaker. The poor lady's sister had screamed at him, saying that he cursed the babe and the mother as well.

Their last reason is his appearance, as dumb as this one may seem. Tall, lanky, blue eyes, reddish blonde hair, he sticks out like a sore thumb. Surely the Devil's work, is it not? Eyes as blue as the magic he performs, and hair a golden red like the flames he must've been born from. This is their final reason, one of the men looking up after reading off the paper.

Witchcraft is considered treason. He knows this, he's heard this so much it's etched into his skull by now. The punishment is death. Oh heavens, is he in for a ride.

"Bryce McQuaid, do you have anything to say in response to your crimes against the church? " Reverend Jonathan Smith glares at him angrily, dark brown eyes alight with the hellfire that Bryce will surely be burning in soon.

He shakes his head. His mouth is dry and his body feels immensely cold despite the heat from the torches all around him. "I've done no wrong," he says. "I do not know what crimes you think I have done against the church, or the Lord. I can tell you for a fact that whatever you believe has happened here never did."

Of course, nobody believes him. He's arrested then and there, taken away from his quiet farmhouse and into the main village. He doesn't know why they act like they're taking him to some secret place, with them refusing to speak to him and even tying his hands behind his back. Bryce already knows where he's going. He also knows that he won't be coming back.

There's a nice, big oak tree in the center of the village. The perfect place to hang someone.

Oh, the noose is already there. How sweet.

(Initially, the folks of Salem wanted to burn the witches, but the King outlawed such a practice. So now they hang witches instead. Bryce isn't sure whether he's glad or not.)

Everyone gathers. Bryce is led onto a small wood platform. His throat feels tight and dryer than the bread someone baked for him last week. He looks out at the crowd with a blank stare.

His neighbor, John, doesn't spare him a glance. The sister of the now deceased mother, a young maiden by the name of Amanda, begins to do some kind of hushed whispering to the girl next to her. Even his best friend, a man called David, doesn't offer any help. His gaze is cold and emotionless, as if he's already rid his mind of any memory he and Bryce might've had together. How kind of him.

The words the Reverend says to him are all a mumbled, garbled slur. He's sure he was asked for his final words after he was set on the proper platform, the noose around his neck.

He has nothing to say. Nothing he can say or do will help him in this situation. That's just how Salem is. The only witches here are the people leading the hunts. If they don't like you, they'll slay you in the name of the Lord and call it a witch hunt.

Someone yells something out. He doesn't care anymore. What's the point? The platform underneath him goes out, and his body drops as the rope pulls against his throat. He can't quite breathe like this, how unfortunate.

Bryce McQuaid expected to die here. Just another victim of the witch trials.

Only, he didn't.

His vision is slowly becoming hazy and his lungs are sobbing and begging for fresh air, his airways partially blocked by the rope. They must think he's dead, for after a while the crowd disappears, and Bryce McQuaid is left hanging in the tree, very much alive.

(Well... All this talk of the Holy Spirit and they can't tie a proper noose, huh? How's Bible study going for these guys again?)

He isn't sure how long he'll be here, but that's okay. They'll have a nice surprise waiting for them when they come to cut down the body tomorrow morning. Bryce isn't going anywhere anytime soon, and he has every intention of staying alive to see their reactions.

He isn't sure how long he's been here, but the moon has come out and the sky is alight with the stars up high, and they're all he's got to keep him company. His body is begging for air, his mind is telling him to give up, and his ever-resilient heart demands he keeps going, keeps fighting, keeps living.

They can't try him for the same thing twice. If he lives, he's in the clear forever. All he has to do is make it to morning. He can't dare give in.

After all, if he dies here, it would make his immortality potion quite redundant, now wouldn't it?

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also i wanted to do some cliche 25 days of christmas bullshit but???? i lost the list of ships i had and procrastinated on someo f the drabbles too hard hELP hELP hELP