Weyward

by Emilia Hart

The two judges were seated on a high bench, as if they were heavenly beings, rather than meat and bone like the rest of us.

Even then, she wasn’t sure whether she’d go through with it, whether she deserved it. Freedom.

Fiction became a friend as well as a safe harbor; a cocoon to protect her from the outside world and its dangers.

The physician spoke with confidence. He was a man, after all. He had no reason to think he would not be believed.

Now, worlds, characters, even sentences linger—burning like beacons in her brain. Reminding her that she’s not alone.

Man is born of woman. Not the other way round.”

As for the reason: it is my belief that people lie when they are afraid.”

A great many things look different from a distance. Truth is like ugliness: you need to be close to see it.

Things will be different, this time. She is different. And she is never going back to him.

Who decides where things begin and end?

She knows what it’s like, wanting to tell, to no longer be alone with the awful, secret knowledge, poisoning your cells like a disease. Wanting to speak but being choked into silence by the shame of it.

Weyward, they called us, when we would not submit, would not bend to their will. But we learned to wear the name with pride.

Perhaps one day, she said, there would be a safer time. When women could walk the earth, shining bright with power, and yet live.