Work Text:
June 1692
The storm raged through the darkened fields of Massachusetts, breaking what would’ve normally been a peaceful, still summer night. Instead, the wind whipped through the tall stocks of wheat and the rain ripped across the stretching farmland and the thunder rumbled deeply from the clouds above while lightning split the sky in brief flashes of brilliant light.
In the middle of the field stood a small farmhouse. The candlelight that had lit its windows had long since gone out and the occupants were both fast asleep, despite the storm raging outside. Quaint and quiet in all ways except one. Because just outside of the house, a small wagon of men had pulled up, its wheels muddied from the rain-soaked path and its occupants guided by the small, flickering light of their lanterns. Slowly, the men filed out in a solemn procession and approached the house, pounding on the door when they’d finally reached it to wake the occupants inside.
From the shadows, a young America watched as the house’s occupants - a young, hard-working couple who’d inherited the farm from the husband’s parents after they had passed - roused from their sleep and went to answer the door.
The young colony didn’t need to watch to know what was going to happen next, but she couldn’t seem to peel her eyes away as the door was opened to reveal Sheriff Corwin and his men.
She could hardly hear the conversation between the two men, their words barely audible over the harsh pattering of the rain against the windows, but it soon broke out into loud protests as the sheriff’s men shouldered past him to enter the house with one deadly word on their lips.
Witchcraft .
America wanted to close her eyes. She wanted to close her eyes and cover her ears and block out the sickening scene. She wanted to pretend like she was back home, sitting in front of a comforting fire while England read her a bedtime story to lull her sleep, rather than listening to the pleading screams of the man’s wife as she was dragged from the house. She wanted the twisting feeling in her chest to disappear and the sick, bubbling feeling in her stomach to go away.
Yet, she couldn’t.
She couldn’t turn away or speak or move.
Instead, the young girl was forced to watch as the woman was dragged from her home by the strangers, still dressed in her nightclothes, as tears streamed down her face and panic filled her eyes.
The sight drove America into a panic as her fear-addled mind swirled with dangerous could-be scenarios. America didn’t think she was a witch. She had never used magic before, nor had she ever cursed people or performed rituals or anything! Yet, simple things like that didn’t seem to have stopped them from taking the others. All they had done was be accused and America knew she was just different enough to worry. She didn’t age like the other kids in town and she always seemed to be more in tune with the land and her people than any other person. Did that make her a witch? Those were things she couldn’t help! Plus, England had told her all of that was normal.
These people didn’t seem to care though.
What would happen if they found out she didn’t age properly? Would they take her? Would they put her on trial for witchcraft? England always said they were a product of God’s will, that they represented the land that God made, but would that matter to the humans? Would God protect her if they tried to…purge the devil from her? Did she have Satan in her? America didn’t want that.
Tears filled her blue eyes as the house faded into an unsteady darkness, one that seemed to creep deep into her soul and cause her stomach to sink.
Then, the world burst into an overwhelming discordance of lights and sounds and screams.
Her vision swam in the bright sunlight, blinding her to whatever was going on.
In front of her, a woman cried out “I’m innocent, I swear it!” in heaving sobs before being cut short by a series of sickening choking sounds.
America couldn’t see the woman, but the sounds sent her heart racing. Quickly, she tried her best to blink away the searing light, wanting - needing - to see what was going on, but her efforts were cut short when someone forcefully tugged her forward. Towards the choking sounds.
Before she could even think to resist the pull, she was lifted into the air and placed onto a shaky platform, which rolled back and forth unsteadily when she shifted her weight.
Then she felt the rough, scratchy texture of frayed rope wrap around her throat.
When the realization hit her, ice ran through her veins, followed quickly by gut-wrenching, mind-racing panic.
She wanted to throw up.
She wanted to scream.
She wanted to run.
Why was this happening? Where was England? England wouldn’t let this happen to her…right?
America looked around, desperate to find anyone who could help her, but the panicked tears that had welled in her eyes blurred the world around her and she could see anything. When she opened her mouth to call out for England, to plead for her life, all that came out were loud sobs.
Then, the floor fell out from under her and she was falling.
Falling, falling, falling.
Until the rope above her pulled taut and the noose coiled tightly around her neck.
America’s hands flew to the rope and clawed at its frays, trying to loosen it as it slowly began to suffocate her.
She had to get it off. She had to, she had to, she had to because couldn’t breathe .
America couldn’t breathe, no matter how hard she tried or how much she clawed and kicked and wiggled.
She just couldn’t .
Hysteria built in her chest the longer she hung there.
She didn’t want to die. She was scared and alone and she couldn’t breathe.
She couldn’t breathe.
Her lungs burned, screamed, for the air and she couldn’t- she couldn’t-
Around her, the world blurred into a dizzying mixture of light and color and her pulse was pounding widely in her temples, growing louder and louder with each beat.
Black spots swam into her vision and slowly began to engulf everything.
She didn’t want to die…
She didn’t want to die, but she couldn’t -
America shot awake from the dream gasping for air, safe in her own bed in her own room in her own house in Virginia.
Safe. Safe and alive and breathing.
She could breathe. She could.
America tumbled out of her bed as soon as she was sure she wasn’t going to be sick and pattered her way towards the main bedroom of the house, desperately seeking some sort of comfort that would stave off the panic bubbling up in her chest. She wiped the tears that had been rolling down her cheeks on the quilt she’d drug with her and flinched when a crack of thunder boomed outside.
When the burning at the base of her throat threatened to rise and overcome her, America sped up.
The bedroom that England normally occupied when she was visiting was empty when America entered. The older country had returned to her own land a couple of months before and hadn’t come back yet, but America climbed up into that too big, too empty bed and cocooned herself up in the quilts anyway.
Then, she just laid there, too scared to close her eyes for fear that her nightmares would return to haunt her, but too terrified to return to her own room. At least here, she could pretend that England was there, ready to comfort her, ready to tell her that nothing was going to happen to her. But she could still feel the rope burning around her neck and her pulse pounding in her temple.
Outside, a particularly nasty summer storm was ripping its way through Virginia. A haunting wind was howling in the night and the rain was violently pounding against the window panes, keeping America up late into the night and pulling whimpers from her each time thunder rumbled in the distance.
Closing her eyes brought her no closer to sleep.
Instead, she fought against what she’d seen. The pleas and the begging and the tears of the poor people being swept away in the mass hysteria down in Massachusetts rang in her ears as much as their images were burned into the forefront of her mind.
This nightmare hadn’t been the first, and she was certain it wouldn’t be the last.
America didn’t understand why she was having the dreams, nor did she understand why so many people were dying.
There were a lot of people who said that witchcraft was bad and that those who practiced it had sold themselves to Satan, but nothing about the witch trials in Salem felt right. If they were Christians trying to fight Satan, then why were so many people dying? Murdering people was a sin too, wasn’t it? Religion was a funny, fickle thing that she had yet to grasp.
Thunder struck outside again and pulled a whimper from the small girl, who wound the quilts tighter around herself and tried her best to shut out the storm.
Maybe one day, when she was older, she’d understand.