Bridget Bishop

6/9/1692

I am outside of the courtroom, the prospect of death looming in front of me. I hear cries and shouts of my neighbors. I think about my dear Edward, how he must be at my inn, cleaning the counter. Waiting for customers that will never come. Everyone is here today, at the court, waiting for people to be brought in, waiting for people to be sentenced, waiting for people to be hung. As I look back at my 50 somewhat years, I wonder, what I did to make these people hate me. Maybe it was the clothes I wore with the bright colors, the ones nicer than Samuel Parris’s wife’s clothes and everyone else’s in this accursed town. Or maybe it was that I owned a busy inn, and didn’t listen to what men or anyone said about me.

I look up, at the guards, watching them flinch as I look at them, one at a time. Not for the first time I think about trying to escape, then turn away the idea, knowing that it would make me look guilty. Not that it would make a difference. I know what will happen to me. The guards start to whisper.

“Did you hear what’s going to happen to Sarah Good?”

“No? What?”

“She’s being accused of being a witch and is going to be hung.” The guards glance at me, waiting to see how I will react. I raise an eyebrow as if to say, “What are you looking at?” and they turn away quickly. The court doors fly open and the guards escort me past Sarah and I see tears running down her cheeks. I look at myself and smooth my red skirt and accept that this is as presentable I will look.

The townspeople look at me eagerly, excited for more yelling, more excitement and I am disgusted. As I stand in front of them, I see their faces that cry out, “I want to see you hung!” their mouths saying, “She’s guilty! Hang her!” The two disgusting little girls, Abigail and Betty pull something out of their pockets that glint in the light: pins. They take turns poking themselves with them then Abigail takes out her doll, today dressed as me. She takes her pin and sticks it in the doll. I wince and try to hide my fear of these two tiny girls as Abigail grins maliciously at me. The smell of the poop of the pigs that I “bewitched” is overwhelming along with the sweat from all of the townspeople, you can feel the excitement pouring out of them. I smell the slightest hint of bread from the bakery and I realize that if I don’t prove my innocence, these may be the last things I see, the last things I smell.

As reality greets me, I think about my inn and my poor Edward. What will happen to it? What will Edward do? The villagers will probably burn it down or give it to the worst inn owner they can find. I shudder just thinking about it. My hands clench in my skirt, gripping the smooth fabric. I wish I was a witch so I could curse all of these people, especially those two little girls. Of course, I won’t say this out loud, it’ll just make me seem even more like a witch. But I know no matter what I do, to them, I’ll be a witch. But no matter what the judge, Abigail, Betty, or the townspeople say, I will not plead guilty to being a witch.